Rolling in the Deep
by SailingAwaySoftly
Summary: This is not a heart-warming love story. It is the tale of an ambitious Auror haunted by her past and a vile Snatcher given an undeserved second chance, thrown together during a war that would change their worlds forever. Language, violence, and lemons.
1. The Times that Try

"_These are the times that try men's souls_." Thomas Paine

She took one last glance in the mirror before taking her place in the queue. Given what had taken place two days ago, physically, she was holding up rather well. Her light brown hair was neatly pulled back and the bruise on her cheek concealed. If someone who hadn't known her walked past, they would simply think the woman was in need of a few extra hours of sleep.

She opened an empty stall door and stepped into the toilet bowl. With a quick tug, she was spinning down and then calmly walked into Ministry of Magic's atrium. She nodded at a few coworkers who eyed her curiously or nodded with sympathy. She bit her lip and went to the lifts.

"Roaghnailt," Jamie Cornish greeted as she came up beside him. "Surprised to see you, er, up and about."

She shrugged.

He looked down at her curiously, holding the lift open for her as she stepped in. He stood directly behind her, and she could feel his hot breath on the back of her neck. Unfortunately, she couldn't move.

With a sudden lurch, Raoghnailt stumbled backwards and Jamie snaked an arm around her waist. Disgusted, she quickly righted herself, plucked his hand from her person, and dropped it. He chuckled behind her.

"You're too difficult," he breathed in her ear.

The lift came to a stop and the door slid open. She turned to face him, hissing, "And _you_ can't take _no_ for an answer."

With that, she marched away, her heels clicking on the cool stone floor.

* * *

"Ms Scrimgeour? Ms Scrimgeour. _Ms Scrimgeour_," a soft, feminine voice said. Raoghnailt had her head resting on her desk, absentmindedly staring off at the wall to her right.

She grunted.

"Ms Scrimgeour, ma'am, um, Dolores Umbridge requests your presence in her office."

Raoghnailt sat up quickly, rapping her fingers on the edge of her desk before pushing back her chair and standing. She quickly straightened her robes and her collar, attempting to look presentable for the senior undersecretary who, no doubt, had a few choice words for her.

She took notice of the young girl standing in front of her, dressed in a pink skirt that clung too tightly to her hips and a blouse with a plunging neckline. The older woman snorted, eyebrows raised.

"Ma'am?"

"You think that's an appropriate look, do you?"

The woman opposite Raoghnailt flushed, nervously pushing a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. "If you want to be taken seriously, I suggest a change of wardrobe. Or would you rather be bent over, on your knees for the rest of your career?"

If it was possible, the woman flushed an even deeper shade of scarlet before giving an awkward curtsy and stumbling out of Raoghnailt's office.

She shook her head.

* * *

Raoghnailt slowed her pace as she approached the door of Dolores Umbridge's office. She saw Moody's eye affixed to it, darting around. It settled briefly on her for a moment before carrying on with its frenzy. She hesitantly knocked, praying that Dolores was elsewhere. After the interrogation two days ago, Raoghnailt was not entirely sure she would be able to keep calm and professional in front of this woman and her cohorts.

The door opened, Yaxley standing in its place. She bowed her head briefly.

"Miss Scrimgeour, nice of you to join us," he said, his voice low and gravelly.

She hummed a response before stepping in. Dolores sat behind her desk, and Yaxley took his place standing next to a man, or beast rather, who she recognised as Fenrir Greyback.

Dolores looked up at her expectantly, a small smile on her lips. "Oh, do sit down, Raoghnailt," she said kindly.

With three long strides, she crossed the room and took a seat.

"Tea?"

"Ah, no, thank you," she said, warily eying the two men to her left.

"Very well," Dolores remarked chirpily.

_Keep calm, don't do anything rash, keep calm_...

Raoghnailt took a deep breath, determined to maintain an indifferent and cool exterior. Their..._misdeeds_, for all they knew, hadn't gotten to her. Just another day on the job, an occupational hazard. She could handle the death of her father, the Cruciatus curse, Veritaserum forced down her throat. For all they knew, she had experienced worse.

"Now, Raoghnailt, your record," Dolores began, pulling out a manilla file and flipping it open with her short wand, "is actually very good. You completed your training at twenty-two and helped your father in capturing several extremely dangerous criminals shortly thereafter, correct?"

She nodded, "Yes."

Dolores studied her for a moment before shuffling through some papers. "Since, you have climbed quite high through the ranks and you are, currently," she paused to take a sip of tea, "a deputy of the department under Robards."

"That's what the door to my office says," Roaghnailt said simply.

Dolores' eyes darted to Yaxley and Greyback. "And," she continued, "aside from a few _personal_ misdemeanors, shall we call them, you are one of the best aurors in the department, and, as such, you deserve to be rewarded."

Raoghnailt's eyebrows knit together.

"The Minister has authorised Snatchers to capture muggle-borns," she said shortly. "Given your record, and your lack of suspicious _loyalties_ elsewhere, we appoint you as their coordinator and overseer."

Roaghnailt could feel all eyes land on her expectantly. This wasn't a job _offer_, she knew. She couldn't refuse it. So she simply sat in her seat, calmly folding her hands in her lap and waiting for further instruction from the plump woman sitting on the other side of the desk.

The office was tensely quiet until a whistle was heard outside. The door was brusquely knocked upon and, before Yaxley could reach it, was thrown open. Raoghnailt cringed as the door slammed shut but didn't turn in her seat. For some reason, she couldn't trust Dolores enough to turn her back to her.

"What 'ave I missed, nuf'ing too important, I presume?"

Raoghnailt felt her stomach drop. That _voice_.

Dolores had straightened in her seat, her eyebrows raised and a look of disapproval on her face. "You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago."

"Duty calls, ma'am," he said flippantly, stopping just beside Raoghnailt's chair. She remained frozen, but out of the corner of her eye she saw plaid trousers that had seen better days and a smooth, black leather coat.

She knew that voice.

"This is equally important, Scabior, I assure you. You have just been appointed a superior," Dolores said airily, confirming Raoghnailt's suspicions.

"Oh, yeah, and 'oo'd that be?"

Dolores gestured across her desk, "Raoghnailt Scrimgeour."

She could feel his eyes on her. She hated it.

"Is that all, then?" she asked, feeling very much like a bit of steak thrown into a lion's den.

"Yes, that is all, Raoghnailt. I congratulate you on this appointment," Dolores said sweetly. "You're expected to start immediately."

"Thank you," Raoghnailt bowed her head before standing and exiting Dolores Umbridge's office. She knew _he_ was trailing right behind her, followed by Greyback who had been dismissed from the room as she opened the door.

"Well, well," he said, coming up beside her, easily matching her strides. "Never thought I'd be seein' you again, love, let alone 'ave ta answer to ya."

"Me neither," Raoghnailt grumbled, quickly turning the corner, racing into a crowded lift, and pulling the gate closed.

"Mee'ing in five, then?" he called.

"Make it ten," she replied mockingly.

"Your office?" Fenrir Greyback asked, standing beside him.

She nodded curtly before the lift rushed backwards. She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her long nose. It was not a good day.

* * *

**Sorry to those who are patiently awaiting a new _Wee Birdies Sing_ chapter- I just had to get this out! All things you recognize from the books and movies belong to J.K. Rowling, that which you do not is mine. Please humor me with a review. I've been itching to start this story, and, now that I am, I would love some feedback. Yours.**


	2. Good or Bad Fortune

_"We do not know what is really good or bad fortune."_ Jean Jacques Rousseau

Scabior picked at the dirt underneath his fingernails as he leaned against the wall. He and Fenrir Greyback had been standing outside the office of Raoghnailt Scrimgeour for fifteen minutes, and, growing impatient, he was of half the mind to simply waltz inside.

"Wasn't she the one who locked you up?" Fenrir asked casually, watching Scabior out of the corner of his eye.

"Mmhmm," Scabior hummed.

"This'll be interesting, then," he laughed.

"Pers'nally, I'm planning on givin' 'er hell."

Fenrir let out a bark of laughter just as the door swung open. "You can come in now," Raoghnailt said as she returned to her desk.

Scabior followed her inside, his eyes uncontrollably glued to the gentle sway of her hips. He was but a man, after all.

Both men took a seat and expectantly looked at the still-standing auror. She seemed to be sizing them up, her arms folded over her chest and eyes narrowing before she finally decided to sit.

For a long time, she didn't say anything. The two men exchanged looks, curious at the woman's behavior.

Scabior leaned forward in his chair and cleared his throat, "Bus'ness, then?"

Raoghnailt shot him a glare, "Right. What is it, exactly, that your lot does?"

"We've a list," Scabior said, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a small, leather-bound booklet. He, rather unceremoniously, tossed it at her. It landed on her desk with a soft thud.

"And what do you do with this?" she asked, picking it up and leafing through it slowly.

"We try to find those who are listed," Fenrir said, "and then bring them back to the Ministry for questioning."

Her eyebrows raised. "Torture, you mean."

"Quest'ning, torture, tomato, tomah'o," Scabior shrugged, a wicked grin on his face.

Her nose scrunched for a moment, and Scabior knew he had disgusted her, or, at the very least, put her off. She was still the same Raoghnailt, underneath it all. Still the same brown-haired, over-achieving, Ravenclaw know-it-all who thought she was better than everyone else because she had had a "proper" upbringing and was from a prominent family with a country house.

Fucking bullocks, if you asked him.

"So, do you have any specific tactics?"

Fenrir and Scabior exchanged glances before shaking their heads no.

"Plans?

Another no.

"Leads?"

"Spotters?"

"Maps?"

No, no, no.

"Just this list?" she asked sardonically, holding the small, black book between her fingers.

The men nodded.

"For Merlin's sake, how have you managed to be effective thus far?"

"Yaxley," Fenrir supplied. "He had a few suspicious characters already lined up for us, so we've been a bit preoccupied with them."

She pursed her lips, "Hm. And, once you've run out of these 'characters,' what do you expect to do?"

"Well," Scabior began, "we was thinkin' it'd just be some sort o' free-fer-all, eh?"

Her eyes narrowed at him, "That is the worst plan, or lack there of, I have ever heard."

Fenrir laughed at his crestfallen friend as Scabior settled against the back of his chair.

"Like to see you come up wiv somefing better," he grumbled.

"I'd like to have a meeting tomorrow at nine o'clock sharp. Bring all of the Snatchers. If you're late, I _will_ be releasing you from your duties." Her eyes settled on Scabior, "Just because you _swagger_ around like you own the place, doesn't mean I am going to accept tardiness like some of my superiors. Do I make myself clear?"

Scabior rolled his eyes and gave a mock salute.

"Good. Till tomorrow, then," she said, turning in her chair and opening the drawer of an over-stuffed file cabinet.

As Fenrir shut her door closed behind him, he couldn't help but snicker. "Was that you 'giving her hell,' then?"

"I'm jus' warming up," Scabior said darkly.

"If 'warming up' consists of staring at her tits and letting her walk all over you, then I can't wait to see what'll happen tomorrow," Fenrir laughed.

Scabior gave him a swift punch to the arm, "Shut it."

* * *

He didn't sleep well that night. He kept thinking about her and how she was going to structure and order the Snatchers which he had been hoping would be a free-for-all, guerilla-style, lurking through the woods and in the shadows of pubs.

Knowing this woman's need for control, it would no doubt become a miniature standing army, uniforms and all. And that was the last thing he wanted to be a part of.

He groaned, rolling over onto his side. Perhaps he would be late that morning, and he would just go rogue on his own. He had the list. He could very well do it without some woman ordering him about.

* * *

"So glad you could make it," her voice dripped with sarcasm as he sauntered into her crowded office. Several eyes flicked towards him as a leather folder was shoved into his hands.

"What's this all about, then?" he asked, holding up the thing after briefly leafing through it.

"Your new Bible," she said, leaning against her desk, holding her own open. He sneered at the muggle idea, but it quickly disappeared as his eyes traveled up and down her body. Her legs were crossed, trousers tucked into tall boots, blouse covered by a brown vest. Her robes were thrown over the back of her chair, and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. She looked like she had been at work for several hours, though the clock didn't start until eight. He rolled his eyes, realising she had probably been sitting in this office, doing up these folders since six.

"Now, I want you all to study the maps. Geography is going to be important. I've divided the country into three regions, and you will be rotated every so often between them, when I instruct you to do so."

"Why's that?" someone piped up.

She rolled her eyes, "Seriously?"

There were murmurs of agreement.

"Yes, ma'am, I'm not one fer, ah, stra'egy," the young man muttered, lowering his gaze to the floor in embarrassment.

Scabior scoffed, "It's so no one catches on 'a us."

"Right," Raoghnailt nodded. "That's all cleared up, then. Now, the leaders each have a roster. I expect it to be completed and placed in my hands by the end of the day. I want to know who all is working for us and where they call home."

After a brief pause, she added, "Snatchers, you answer to your leaders. Leaders, you answer to me."

"Is that all?" Fenrir asked.

"Yes."

"No uniforms?" Scabior asked sarcastically, eyebrows raised.

"Just the red armbands," she said.

"Structured stra'egy?" he pressed.

She straightened, crossing the room, "You're a bunch of grown men, are you not?"

Stopping briefly in front of him, Raoghnailt continued, "I trust you'll figure it out."

He couldn't help but to stare down her shirt before she brushed past him and to the door.

"Meeting adjourned," she said dryly.

As the Snatchers filed out of her office, Scabior waited to fall into step with Fenrir.

His eyes met Raoghnailt's as they passed her. Time, for a moment, seemed to slow and something deep within his chest stirred.

She raised an eyebrow at him, "Something the matter?"

He shook his head, although she didn't look terribly convinced. She closed the door behind them quickly.

"You were looking at her tits again," Fenrir commented as they walked towards the lifts.

"Looked right _perky_ t'day, didn't they though?" Scabior joked.

"I wasn't the one to get the view you did," Fenrir laughed.

* * *

**I just couldn't resist getting another chapter out today. As you know, J.K. Rowling owns that which you recognize from the HP Universe, I own that which you do not. Please be the wonderful person that you are and leave a review! Yours.**


	3. Know How to Command

"_He who wishes to be obeyed must know how to command_." Niccolò Machiavelli

Raoghnailt rounded the corner, her hair having fallen from its ponytail. She was fuming. Yet another request to join Dolores Umbridge in her office, and it wasn't hard to imagine why. That _stupid _man had been causing her more trouble than the higher ups had bargained for and, apparently, that was completely her fault. It was her job to babysit a grown man. A slew of curses fell from her mouth when she saw those plaid trousers and scuffed black boots coming her way. Her eyes settled on his face. He had noticed her, casually turned and started walking the other way.

"_You_," she yelled, picking up her pace.

"'Oo, me?" Scabior said, turning as his shoulders slumped. He couldn't escape now.

"Yes, you," she said angrily and looked him over with a huff. "_You_ are coming with me."

"I like the way you fink," he said cheekily.

She whacked him with her own leather folder, a bit harder than she had been anticipating. "It's barely been two weeks and you've already got me in trouble. So _you_, sir, are coming with me to this blasted meeting so I can explain what a scoundrel you are!" she hissed, grabbing his arm and pulling him after her to the lifts.

"Bloody ridiculous," Scabior grumbled, pulling his arm from her grasp as the gate closed behind him. He reached up for the same handle as Raoghnailt, his grimy fingers covering hers.

He was doing this to infuriate her. She could see it in his eyes.

"So, what's this mee'ing all about, then?"

Raoghnailt sighed in frustration, "If any of my previous visits are indicators, I'll be chewed out, lectured, maybe congratulated for one thing or another, and then I'll blame you, she won't believe me, and I'll be dismissed after she stares me down."

She could feel Scabior's eyes on her, but she refused to make eye contact. Her gaze, instead, settled on the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Her eyes narrowed as they traveled to his shoulders and then downward.

"Whose clothesline did you stumble through?" she asked, disdain in her voice.

He looked down at himself and shrugged, "Beggars can' be choosers."

"Oh please," she scoffed. "Stop acting like you're impoverished."

"Me father-"

"Your father, your father," she sneered. "He _may_ have gambled away a good sum of your family's fortune, but you certainly _are not_ poor."

After a pause, she added, "You at least have the money to buy some decent clothes."

She knew she had struck a chord. He was annoyed, disgruntled, and maybe even a little bit embarrassed. The more she wore him down before they got to Dolores' office, the easier it would be to put the blame on him.

As they stepped out of the lift and began down the corridor towards Dolores Umbridge's office, Scabior stopped. "Wait jus' one minute, _Raoghnailt_," he began. She turned to look at him expectantly.

He took a few steps closer to her, "'Ow exactly d'_you_ know about me finances?"

She raised an eyebrow. She hadn't been expecting to answer to that.

"Your file," she said simply before turning on her heel.

* * *

"Dolores, this man," she cried, pointing a finger at the seated Scabior, "is impossible! I can't order him to do _anything_! How do you expect me to do my _job_ if I don't have any respect or authority?"

This meeting, much to Raoghnailt's displeasure, had taken a turn for the worst. Not only had she been degraded in front of Yaxley, Rancorn, and Scabior, but she had been reduced to yelling in order to be heard. She felt like she was in a room with children.

"Raoghnailt, calm down," Dolores said calmly. "Sit," she gestured to the empty chair next to Scabior that Raoghnailt had previously jumped from.

She hesitantly eyed the others in the room before slowly taking her seat.

"Now, Rao-"

"In my defense," she hissed, sitting forward, ready to list off her complaints and grievances about the motley crew of Snatchers she was supposedly in charge of.

However, Raoghnailt was interrupted by Yaxley's low voice, "Scrimgeour, shut up."

She snapped her mouth closed and within seconds, her demeanor had turned reserved and cool again. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Scabior's eyebrows rise, and she could tell he was holding in a laugh.

"Thank you," Dolores said chirpily, curiously watching Raoghnailt for another outburst.

Raoghnailt remained quiet, inwardly fuming. She really hated these people. If it weren't for her determination to be Head of the department, she would have marched out of the room and screamed to the heavens the injustice of the Ministry.

"Now, if you wish to exercise _control_ over the Snatchers," Dolores calmly began, sitting taller in her chair, "perhaps you should join them out in the field."

Her eyes widened, "Beg pardon?"

"I said, you should join them in the field. Snatch with them, instead of sitting in your office and giving orders. Surely the thought occurred to you?"

"I, well, er, yes, ma'am, but-" Raoghnailt began, though she wasn't sure where she was going. "I don't think that's-"

"You're an auror, Raoghnailt. I'm positive you've experienced worse conditions than running through the countryside. Surely, this will be an easy task for you."

Raoghnailt glanced at Scabior, who looked equally as shocked as she was.

"Of course," she agreed quietly.

"Good. Is that all?"

Raoghnailt nodded.

As Raoghnailt stood, she could feel Scabior's eyes on her. Yaxley held the door open for them and, as soon as they had passed through, he slammed it shut. Raoghnailt froze on the spot, staring ahead of her, her mind racing.

What had they gotten her in to? When she had been given this appointment, it seemed more of a desk job, not a running-about-in-the-field job. But now, she would be moving around for months. Her thoughts ran through every possible option - she _could_ put herself up in an inn outside Manchester. Somewhere quiet, somewhere that could function as a headquarters for the Snatchers. After all, the areas did all overlap at Manchester. It would make sense.

"Er, Raoghnailt?" Scabior asked, waving a hand in front of her face.

She shook her head.

"You a'right, then?"

"Yeah, yeah," she said, turning and walking towards the lifts.

"Well, you 'ave to a'mit, this is an int'restin' turn of events, eh?"

"I don't know that I'd use 'interesting' to describe this situation."

"Oh, c'mon," he said, nudging her, "fink of it as an a'venture. Wiv me."

She scowled. "Sounds like a grand old time," she grumbled sarcastically.

**

* * *

Woo, chapter three! I'm on a roll. But I'm kind of obsessed with Raoghnailt and Scabior... I'm excited to write more! Thank you to OhTex and ISolemnlySwearIAmUpToNoGood, my two reviewers. I'm not worthy of your praises! (But keep them coming. Please.) JK Rowling owns the HP Universe, I own that which you don't recognize from it. I do have a question: have I capture Dolores Umbridge well? I'm hesitant about her, and, at times, Scabior. Thoughts? Yours.**


	4. Down Into Hell

"_It is easy to go down into Hell; night and day, the gates of dark Death stand wide; but to climb back again, to retrace one's steps to the upper air - there's the rub, the task."_ Virgil

Scabior sat on a stump in front of the dying fire. The other men lay scattered about on their bed rolls. Snoring, snorting, wheezing, murmuring. Bloody annoying is what it was. His cheek rested on his fist, and he picked up a stick to stoke the fire.

They had been on the move for two and a half weeks and hadn't caught a single person on the list. It was disheartening and, as _she_ would put it, "infinitely frustrating." He liked succeeding, even if it meant using questionable tactics. But, because Raoghnailt was in the field with them, those methods had been hidden away.

He rolled his eyes as her name crossed his mind. It was bad luck to have a woman around, or so he figured. And she wasn't a Snatcher. She was an Auror. Lot of good that would do them. The only thing she had proved to be good for was getting them rooms in inns.

That's it.

Well, no. She also proved to be quite the distraction.

If he swaggered around the Ministry, she _sauntered_ through the woods. Was it intentional? Probably. He couldn't be sure. Women were a mystery to him. Always had been, always would be.

He smirked.

There was just one thing a woman was good for and that was-

A pop, a snapping twig, and a quiet "Shit!" sent Scabior reaching for his wand. He quickly stood and cautiously stepped towards the edge of the clearing.

"Stupe-"

Without a word, his wand flew from his hand.

"Lumos."

She stood an arm's length from him, "What in the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Keepin' _watch_," he sneered.

She pushed passed him, murmuring "Nox."

"What?" he groaned, exasperated. "Wha've I done wrong now?"

"Next time, ask for identification."

"An' wha' if you was _lying_?"

As soon as he had said it, he knew it was stupid.

She turned and, even in the darkness, he could see the look of disbelief on her face, "Why in _Merlin's_ name would I _lie_ about who _I_ am?" she spat.

"I... don't know," he answered lamely.

As soon as her back turned to him, he narrowed his eyes at her. Bloody woman.

"'Ey, wha're you-"

Raoghnailt proceeded to kick every man lying about with her perfectly polished brown, _Italian_ leather boots. Several shot up, brandishing their wands. Others groaned and rolled over.

"Get up, you oafs," she barked.

"_Why_?" someone grumbled.

Scabior nodded in agreement, drawing himself up to his full height and crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. "Wha's got you so _snippy_ this mornin'?"

She eyed him, "I've got a lead."

* * *

They crouched behind a fallen tree at the top of a hill, looking down on a small campsite. Nothing stirred. The sun had barely begun to rise. All in all, optimal conditions for snatching.

"You are absolutely certain about this?" Fenrir growled lowly.

"Yes, they'll be right down there. In the tent. In all likelihood, they'll make a run for it, but, as I've said, there are more of us and we are _much_ faster."

"'Ow d'yeh know that?" Scabior whispered.

Her jaw set and her eyes narrowed at him. It was a look he was all too familiar with. "She's pregnant. You expect her to be a marathon sprinter or something? And I highly doubt her husband is just going to let her fall behind."

"What about the kids?" Fenrir asked. "They could make a run for it."

"You're going to tell me that three children, all under eight years old, can run faster than grown men?"

"Well, if they team up or-"

"Greyback?" she interrupted him.

"Yes?"

"Your outlandish stupidity never ceases to astound me."

Scabior sniggered, thoroughly amused by the exchange.

"Goes for you too, Scabior," she snapped, glaring at him.

"Wha've I done tha's stupid recently?"

She glared. "'Really fink you can run fast in them fancy boots, Raoghnailt? You should leave the runnin' to those who're fit 'a do so,'" she mocked quietly, her voice dropping to a lower register and taking on his affect.

He had to admit, she did a decent impersonation of him.

He shrugged, "I was genuinely concerned."

She rolled her eyes before glancing at her watch. "Three minutes," she whispered.

Scabior had made the mistake earlier of asking why she did everything according to a precise plan. Apparently, plans left less room for error. It was stupid, if you asked him. Without her around, he would've marched into that little encampment by now and bound everyone up.

Done. Easy. No plan, no hassle.

"C'mon," she hissed, standing and straightening her jacket as the sky began to grow lighter. Fenrir and Scabior followed suit, though neither made any adjustments to their appearances.

Below, the tent flap opened and out walked a sandy-haired man holding a small frying pan. Scabior couldn't help but smirk knowing that this fellow had absolutely no idea what was about to happen to him, what hid amongst the trees. He could feel the adrenaline finally kicking in. The thrill of the hunt, and it all came down to these next few moments.

He was delighted.

Raoghnailt took a deep, shaky breath beside him. He glanced down at her for a moment.

"Nervous?" he asked. A child bounded out of the tent, followed by another. A woman, the man's pregnant wife, slowly stretched before joining her husband by the small fire.

Raoghnailt let out a huff, a small smile on her lips, "Not really. I've done this before."

Fenrir had already started down the hillside. "Could've fooled me," he said casually, following suit. He could feel her hurrying after him.

"I caught _you_, didn't I?" she hissed.

He couldn't help but smile wickedly, "Took you long enough, though."

She grumbled something just as they entered the clearing.

"Well, well, well," Scabior began, his eyes flicking towards the various other Snatchers surrounding the site. "I do believe, Mis'er and Missus Fenwick, yer runnin' from the law."

A third child crawled out from the tent. Mrs Fenwick quickly scooped the girl up and held her to her chest. Mr Fenwick stood protectively in front of his wife and children, slowly drawing his wand. He whispered something to a nodding and frightened Mrs Fenwick.

"You don't want to be doing that," Raoghnailt said, an edge in her voice that he had never heard before.

"_Run_!" Charles Fenwick bellowed.

"Expelliarmus!"

The two oldest children ran in different directions. Mrs Fenwick, kid still in her arms, bolted to her left.

Scabior turned to Roaghnailt who caught Fenwick's wand. Another Snatcher had him bound up quickly and looked down at the now shaking man menacingly.

"I though' you said she wouldn't run!" Scabior barked at her.

She shot him a glare as she pocketed the wand and set off at a sprint up the hill, after one of the kids. Scabior turned, joined by Fenrir and another Snatcher named Domitian, to chase down Mrs Fenwick. They dodged around trees, jumped over stumps and roots, and Scabior could see her dark red robes ahead of them.

"Split up," he barked.

They effectively cornered her within minutes. Her back was pressed against a tree trunk, and the young girl in her arms was wailing.

A wicked grin tugged at his mouth.

"Please, _please_," Mrs Fenwick begged through tears, "don't do this!"

Scabior drew his wand, "Incarcerous."

* * *

They arrived back at the campsite, Scabior dragging the woman after him by the back of her robes. She had been sobbing the entire time, the little girl continued to bawl, and he was absolutely pissed. He unceremoniously let go of her robes when he reached Mr Fenwick, Fenwick Junior, and the rest of the Snatchers.

He looked around, "Where's Scrimgeour?"

He noticed Mr Fenwick's eyes widened at the name.

"She's off gettin' the last one."

Scabior turned to Fenrir, "Go find 'er."

Fenrir nodded before setting off at a light jog. He stopped, though, when Raoghnailt stepped through the tree line, her hair loosely hanging around her face, her boots covered in dirt, and a small boy, bound up, struggling next to her.

She let go of the boy next to his mother and other siblings. She pat down Mrs Fenwick, finding her wand tucked away inside of her robes, before standing.

"To the Ministry, then?"

* * *

After having delivered the Fenwick family to Yaxley, leaving the five of them in his custody for questioning, the Snatchers apparated to their campsite outside of Cheltenham. A fire had been started already by the time Scabior landed near a tree, and the smell and sound of sizzling meat made his stomach groan.

He surveyed the group, smiles on all their faces, delighted at the new provisions provided by the _generous_ Fenwick family. A meal well-deserved.

A stomping sound brought him from his reverie.

He turned to see Raoghnailt scraping the foot of her boot on a rock. With one particularly violent scrape, she nearly lost her balance.

Amused, Scabior approached her.

"Stupid, little twat," she grumbled to no one in particular.

"Wha're you talkin' about me for?" he asked jokingly as he came up beside her.

"Not _you_," she snapped. "That _stupid_ little boy."

He raised an eyebrow. Never thought he would hear that from her.

"Tell ya what, we'll get you a _new_ pair o' boots next time the job takes us to It'ly, 'ow's that?"

She turned to face him fully, looking a bit wild. "Ha, ha," she said sarcastically.

He looked at her forehead and reached forward, running his thumb along a bleeding and dirty gash above her eyebrow. He hadn't noticed it before. "What's this?"

She winced, "The boy threw a rock at me. He had better aim than I expected."

"Hm."

Scabior promptly left and rummaged through Fenrir's knapsack, pulling out a bottle. He returned to Raoghnailt, who had started scraping clean her other boot, with a bunched up scarf that smelled strongly of Firewhiskey.

"C'me 'ere," he said. She turned and studied him, her brows knit. Before she had a chance to duck away, he had slipped one hand around the back of her neck and pressed the wet scarf to the injury with the other.

She immediately hissed and started struggling, "That bloody hurts!"

He rolled his eyes, and she gave up her struggle. He kept his eyes on the wound, though Scabior could feel hers studying his face. He pulled her a little closer, though it was entirely unnecessary, finding that he liked whatever feeling this was giving him. He figured he was probably just horny.

When he had finished cleaning the wound, he slowly released her.

She looked up at him, taking a step back, "I, er... Thanks."

He stared at her for a moment before leaving her to return to her boots.

* * *

**I wanted to post this sooner, but the site decided to be a bitch... Anyway, JK Rowling owns the HP Universe, I own that which you do not recognize from it. **** So what did you think of the action? **Please be ever so kind and leave me a review! Yours.


	5. The Misfortune of Knowing

"_A woman, especially if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can." _Jane Austen

Raoghnailt collapsed into the chair after roughly pulling it from underneath the table. She had a stack of letters, a few disgruntled Snatchers' notes, one particularly ornery one who was determined to make her miserable, and a migraine the size of Russia coming on. It just was not her day.

As a tall glass of water was set in front of her, Raoghnailt opened the first letter.

_To Raoghnailt Scrimgeour:_

_We are quite pleased with the efficient and careful work the Snatchers have been doing this past month. I am certain it is because of your watchful eye that we have seen 37 criminals brought to us. _

_I do hope we can have tea upon your return to discuss the possibilities of your advancement. _

_Dolores Umbridge_

_Muggle-born Registration Commissioner  
__Ministry of Magic_

Advancement, she wondered. Perhaps she would get a raise for the sufficient amount of over-time hours she had put in, or for the shit she had to put up with.

She snorted to herself. That was rather unlikely.

Raoghnailt moved on to the next letter, and the next, and the one after that. None required immediately reply, except for a rather large bar tab from the pub the Snatchers had discovered shortly after the capture of the Fenwick family.

"Oi, Scrimgeour!"

Inwardly groaning, she looked up to see Coleson and his small troupe standing in the doorway.

"This where we're stayin' for the nigh'?"

"Yes," she answered shortly before turning back to the papers on the table.

"Excellent," he said sickeningly. The others made sounds of approval before moving towards the tables in the far, dark corner. Raoghnailt rolled her eyes. It seemed all the Snatchers fancied themselves quite the villains and went out of their way to fit into the mysteriously wicked persona. She had to admit, it made for quite the entertaining show.

Especially when they were trying to pick up women. That was always a laugh.

* * *

"I'm sorry to bother you, but, ah, c-can I get you something to eat, ma'am?" a meek young girl asked, standing opposite Raoghnailt. She had been scribbling ferociously in a notebook for the last two hours, entirely unaware of her surroundings or the time.

She straightened and put on a gentle smile, hoping to comfort the girl, "I don't suppose you have any stew, do you?"

The girl's brown eyes brightened, "Yes, of course!"

Raoghnailt's smile widened, finding the girl's newfound enthusiasm infectious, "Thanks."

"Well, well, well, wa'n't tha' _precious_."

Raoghnailt let out a huff before turning to glare at Scabior who leaned casually against the bar.

"Not everyone is as heartless as you," she said.

"Heartless, eh?" he began, swaggering over to her table with glass in hand. "You really know 'ow 'a ruin a man's fun, don't you."

He pulled out the chair next to Raoghnailt and sat down, throwing his dirty boots up onto the table.

Raoghnailt sneered, "Heartless _and_ uncouth. No wonder you couldn't get a date in school."

Scabior raised his eyebrows as he took a long drink.

"I fink yer rememb'rin' that wrong, love. Yer the one 'oo couldn't get a date. That change much af'er graduation?"

She glared at him for a moment before busying herself with her notebook and papers again.

"I'll take _tha_' as a 'no.'" She could hear the smirk in his voice.

"Maybe I just wasn't interested in anyone, hmm?"

He scoffed. "Right, and I'm the Queen of France."

"Well, you've certainly got the hair for it," Raoghnailt volleyed back.

Scabior laughed, "Yer funny- who would'a guessed!"

Raoghnailt flushed at the compliment and mumbled incoherently.

"Wha's that, dearie?" Scabior asked, placing his feet back on the floor and leaning close to Raoghnailt's face to study it.

He stopped when his nose was an inch from hers.

At that moment, she felt incredibly self-conscious. "Get out of my face," she said softly.

"Why?" he breathed.

She raised her eyes so they were level with his, raking her mind for something. However, the young waitress saved her by clearing her throat.

The two instantly sat back in their seats. Raoghnailt looked expectantly at the girl, but out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Scabior looked disgruntled and annoyed.

"The stew, ma'am," she said, carefully placing the bowl in front of Raoghnailt and setting a clean spoon next to it.

Raoghnailt smiled, muttering a quick thanks, before tucking in.

Scabior folded his arms over his chest and stared at the waitress who remained standing by the table, a look of curiosity on her face.

"It's very good," Raoghnailt said. "My compliments to the chef."

The girl's face brightened, a wide smile on her face, before she bounced off towards the kitchen. A muffled "she likes my stew!" was heard. Raoghnailt couldn't help the genuine smile on her face as she continued eating.

"I don't understand you," Scabior began, resting his elbows on the table.

"How do you mean?"

"You treat all the kids we're sen' 'a capture like rubbish, but this girl ya treat like she's yer li'l sister or sommat."

Raoghnailt didn't say anything in return, concentrating entirely on the warm stew. What he said was entirely true.

Out in the field, she was a completely different person. Cold, unemotional, determined to complete the task at hand, just as her father had taught her. These runaways and families they were snatching were, in her mind, the criminals. They weren't dark wizards, no, but somewhere in her mind she had to rationalise what she was doing. A crying seven-year-old half-blood was as much of a threat to the new order of things as the muggle-born adult.

Or so she led herself to believe.

It's not to say that she wasn't confused by her own behavior. The sniveling Fenwick boy who had thrown a rock at her, the Montagu twins who had tripped her before she could grab them, the Howard sisters who had disarmed her and then promptly broke her wand in two - they deserved no sympathy or kindness once she caught up with them.

But this one girl with dark brown eyes who had made her dinner?

Perhaps she reminded Raoghnailt of herself when she was thirteen. Unsure of herself in the world, a silent but strong will to do the best so that one day it might pay off. Perhaps that was it.

* * *

Raoghnailt straightened her vest and pulled her coat over her shoulders, checking her reflection one last time in the mirror before leaving the room.

She quickly made her way down the stairs, twenty pairs of eyes glued to her when she reached the bottom. Quickly looking around, she noticed that one pair was missing.

"Where's Scabior?"

Murmurs, a few shrugs.

"I think he's still in his room. I didn't see him come down yet," Greyback cautiously supplied.

"Right," Raoghnailt said, turning and stomping back up two flights of stairs. She marched to the end of the hallway and was about to knock when she heard the rustling of sheets, a gasp followed by a hushed giggle and a long groan.

Something in Raoghnailt's mind snapped, and she threw open the door.

She wasn't at all surprised by the scene before her: Scabior going at one of the cleaning maids fast and hard.

"Scabior!" she barked. Apparently the door being flung open hadn't distracted him from his paramour.

"What?" he ask, not stopping.

Raoghnailt couldn't believed it and walked to the side of the bed, hands on her hips, and glared down at the couple.

Scabior groaned, "Well, I can't finish wiv you standin' right next 'a me." He disentangled himself from the woman and collapsed on the bed beside her.

Unlike his red-haired female companion, he made no effort to cover himself with the thin bedsheet.

"Wha're you lookin' at me like tha' for?"

It took every ounce of her being not to reach forward and strangle him.

"For Merlin's sake, you are the most repulsive creature on this earth."

"Thank you," he said simply. "Is that it then? Can I get back t-"

Raoghnailt bent down and began picking up his clothes and throwing them at him. "Get dressed, you're _late_."

"You should go," he said softly, giving the woman a quick peck on the lips. As she slid from the bed, the sheets covering the front of her body, Scabior reached out and gave her bottom a quick tap.

Raoghnailt flung his black leather coat at him.

Scabior sat up, tugging his shirt over his head. Beyond that, though, the insufferable man didn't move.

"Well?" Raoghnailt pressed, thoroughly annoyed with the morning's events.

"Wha' am I s'posed t' do about _this_?" he asked, gesturing to his lap. Raoghnailt kept her eyes on his face as she crossed the room in four long strides.

"I don't _care_ what you do about _that_, just get dressed so we can _go_," she bit out.

He raised his eyebrows, his eyes darting downwards and then to her mouth as if to challenge her, but she quickly interjected.

"Umbridge and Greyback," she hissed.

His face scrunched up.

"Against the wall with the decorative kitten plates," Raoghnailt added.

Scabior let out a cry of disgust as Raoghnailt quickly exited the room. The things she had to do for this job.

* * *

**Especially dedicated to OhTex in the happy event of her birthday! Hope this chapter didn't disappoint, and I have to apologize for the lack of regular updates as I promised. Sadly, I've been swamped by papers and exams. As always, JK Rowling owns the Harry Potter Universe, I own that which you do not recognize from it. Also do me the honor of leaving a review!**


	6. By the Smooth Handle

"_Always take hold of things by the smooth handle."_ Thomas Jefferson

Scabior jumped slightly when Fenrir clapped him on the shoulder to relieve him of his watch. Standing, he stretched and nodded to the beast of a man before dragging himself to his bedroll.

Settling in, he rolled over onto his left side.

Then to his right.

Then to his left again.

He pulled the blanket up to his chin.

Rolled over onto his stomach.

Back to his right side.

Threw a leg over the blanket.

Pulled it back up to his chin.

Left side.

Right side.

Stomach.

Another thirty minutes of this passed, until finally, after violently kicking his blanket from him, Scabior settled on his back with a huff and looked up at the clear night sky above.

_What the bloody hell is wrong with you?_ he wondered. Normally he'd pass out the minute his head touched the makeshift pillow. Being so active during the day, that's what usually happened. But the day's routine had been exactly the same. Chase after a few blubbering muggle-borns, drag them off to the Ministry, track a few more on the list, find them, back to the Ministry, and so on.

But something had indeed been different that day, a nagging voice reminded him. The previous night they had camped out near a stream. During his early-morning watch, he'd heard a rustling in the woods. He had pulled out his wand and quietly walked in the direction of the noise, hiding carefully behind trees and ducking under low-hanging branches as he made his way. A deer darted towards the stream– it was this bloody creature that probably had brought him this way. He was about to return to his perch at the camp when someone caught his eye.

And there...

There, Raoghnailt was at the water's edge. She had turned to look at the deer which stared down at her crouched form curiously. Her boots and coat were on a near rock and her trousers were rolled up her calves. The deer, having grown bored with her, splashed through the shallow stream and went on its way. Raoghnailt stood and Scabior noticed a smooth rock in her hand. She turned it over several times before dropping it back into the water with a _plunk!_ She quickly unbuttoned her shirt and shrugged it from her shoulders, tossing it aside.

Uncontrollably, Scabior took a step forward.

A branch snapped under his foot.

She gasped.

He ducked behind the trunk of the nearest tree. His heart was racing.

"Who's there?" she demanded.

He held his breath.

After a minute or two, she mumbled something incoherent. Scabior took the opportunity to peer around the tree trunk's edge. She shoved her wand violently back into her coat pocket and reached behind her back to unhook her bra.

His eyes widened.

Perhaps he'd been staring at her tits those two months ago during their first meeting, but _this_ was an entirely different vignette altogether.

Scabior shook his head, trying to rid himself of that recent memory, knowing very well what it would lead to. And, besides, Raoghnailt lay sleeping a few metres from him. That would be 'uncouth,' as she would say.

He once again rolled over to his left side, this time his eyes settling on Raoghnailt. Even in the dim firelight, he could make out her features. Her hair framed her unusually calm face. For once, she didn't look annoyed, or stressed, or anxious. Just calm.

He wondered if she'd look that way after a good, long shag...

And it was with that thought that Scabior finally fell asleep, albeit only for a few hours.

* * *

Two weeks had passed. Raoghnailt had since gone north to supervise Coleson and his crew. So Scabior, Fenrir, and the rest were free to snatch as they so pleased.

Scabior waltzed into the campsite of two twenty-somethings. Scabior remembered their details from the list. Fitz and Charlotte Blake. Both shared the same light brown hair and sterling eyes. Brother and sister.

"Well, well, well, look 'oo we have 'ere," Scabior said. Charlotte was rooted to her spot near the tent. Fitz stood, his shaking hand grasping his wand.

Scabior exchanged a glance with Fenrir who wore a sadistic smirk. He quickly grabbed the brother, Willoughby shouted a quick "Expelliarmus!", and Johnson jumped at the sister, his arm snaking around her waist.

Marcus, Tilling, and Scabior went about, kicking open the few bags lying around and picking through them. Fenrir snarled, his teeth bared. It was nearly a full moon. Scabior turned away as Fitz Blake began to struggle.

"Don't!" Charlotte cried, attempting to break free from Johnson's hold.

Scabior stood and turned towards the woman, his eyebrows raised. He slowly approached her.

"An' whot, exactly, are _you_ goin' ta do abou' it?" he asked softly, trailing the back of his hand along her jaw. "Eh, luv?"

She spat.

Disgusted, Scabior tore her from Johnson's grip and threw her through the open tent flap. He deliberately walked in after her, unbuttoning his trousers as he did so. She lay on the ground and, upon realising what Scabior intended to do to her, she scurried backwards, sobbing.

Scabior closed the space between them and brusquely pulled her jeans and knickers down. She screamed when he filled her.

Her brother yelled frantically outside. Charlotte wailed in response.

Annoyed, Scabior clamped his hand over her mouth. "If y'don't bloody well shut it, I'll see to it yer brover enjoys the pain of a werewolf bite."

Her teary eyes widened, but she screamed and cried out no more.

* * *

"You did _what_?" Roaghnailt's hiss echoed in the dark corridors of the deepest recesses of the Ministry of Magic.

As it were, Raognailt and the Snatchers from the north had just returned with a fair amount of muggle-borns and sympathisers as Scabior proudly explained the capture of the Blakes to a grinning Yaxley.

"You can't just _rape_ women, Scabior, and think it's alright!"

Bored, he raised an eyebrow.

For what seemed an eternity, they stood there, unbudging, staring at each other.

Finally, Scabior spoke up, "We was told to treat the scum 'owever we please."

Raoghnailt sighed, "That's all very well, but-"

"Got a _reputation_ ta up'old and all that."

"A reputation?" she repeated flatly.

"Y'know, capturing people, taking their fings, rapin' their wimmen," Scabior trailed off. He noticed with each activity he listed, her left eyebrow rose further up her forehead.

"What's next, find the treasure, an X marks the spot? For Merlin's sake, you aren't a bloody _pirate_."

Scabior smirked, "I'd make a right good one, though, wouldn't I?"

He stared after Raoghnailt as she stomped away before following her, humming the tune of "A Pirate's Life for Me." Raoghnailt bristled and picked up her pace.

A damn good pirate indeed.

* * *

**Sorry for such a long delay. I finally am free to write, so I hope to have more updates posted soon. Hope you liked, and, as a reminder, this is rated M for a reason, my darlings! As always, the HP Universe belongs to Jo Rowling, and I own that which you do not recognize. Please review, and happy Easter! Yours.**


	7. The Great Ocean of Truth

"_I was like a boy playing on the sea-shore,...whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me_." Sir Isaac Newton

Raoghnailt collapsed in her chair, letting out a long breath before looking around her office. Everything was just as she left it those, _was it three?_, months ago. She had finally finished her rounds between the groups of Snatchers and Dolores had suggested she return to her desk at the Ministry.

She noticed the large stack of paperwork piled up on the sofa next to the door. She looked at the time. Half-past ten.

She groaned, sinking further into her chair. Raoghnailt was exhausted.

_That didn't stop your father, now did it?_

Of course not. He had a family to worry about on top of all the hours he put into this job. Raoghnailt only had herself. She didn't even have a cat or anything waiting to be fed upon her return home.

As she pulled herself from the chair to gather the files and loose papers on the sofa, she inwardly berated herself for even _thinking_ of her father. She hadn't done so for quite some time. It was easier not to think of him. Just to keep her head down, follow orders, issue orders, please the powers that be. She didn't need to think of the family home in Ludlow, a place she hadn't been since August...

But she had to go back. It was then that she decided that once she had finished a quarter of the paperwork, she would go, hard as it may be. And with that decision made, she began filling in blanks, signing off on requests, and crumpling up useless memos.

* * *

Raoghnailt pushed with all her weight against the front door, which had jammed when she roughly pushed the key into the keyhole. For once, she was thankful there were no close neighbors to spy on her rather embarrassing attempt to get inside her own home.

The door finally gave. Raoghnailt struggled to pull the key from the hole, stumbling backwards when it finally came out. She grumbled angrily as she pocketed it and kicked the front door shut. It clicked as it locked.

She looked around the foyer. The curtains had been drawn closed, but from the small sliver of light, she could see dust particles floating in the air. With the flick of her wand, all the curtains were pulled back and tied to their hooks.

Raoghnailt then went to the kitchen. A crusted pot sat on the stove. The table was set for breakfast. The chair sat a small distance from the table, as if it had been pushed back upon that last time it had been used. An empty bowl sat on the table, spoon still resting inside. The Daily Prophet from the first of August lay folded next to it. She carefully reached forward, touching the flimsy paper. He had not had the chance to open the paper that morning. She closed her eyes, seeing her father finish his morning porridge and reaching for the paper, only to be interrupted by a harsh knock on the door. He would stand and go to answer it, never to return to his home again.

Raoghnailt took a sudden step backwards and turned to go to the parlour. She sighed as she opened the blinds and light flooded the dark room. A dusty record sat on the record player. She lifted it, blew the dust from its cover and smiled warmly. She replaced the record and set the needle on top of it. A soft, jazzy piano intro, the smooth voice of some impeccably suave American singer. She remembered sitting at the top of the staircase when she was young, looking through the railing to see her parents dancing slowly when she was supposed to be sleeping.

She always thought her parents had the perfect marriage. Branna Scrimgeour was a beautiful and slim auburn-haired creature. Her laugh was like bells. For all her husband's intelligence, drive, ambition, and seriousness, she was the dedicated and gracious housewife, the caring mother, the doting wife.

It was only when Baines, Raoghnailt's younger brother, had been hospitalised did she start to fade. And then Rufus Scrimgeour spent more time at the office, Raoghnailt tucked away at school– what a horrible fate, Raoghnailt thought.

She remembered her mother's last embrace just as she was about to run after a few friends to get a compartment on The Hogwarts Express. "You are so much like your father," her mother had whispered, kissing the top of her head. "Er, thanks, Mum, can I go now?" she had asked, disentangling herself. The older woman nodded, and Raoghnailt sang "I love you!" chirpily before running off.

She died when Raoghnailt was fourteen. November of Raoghnailt's fourth year. She and her father never spoke of it, though she figured her mother had been sorely brokenhearted. Rumours at school and harsh insults from other purebloods suggested she drank herself into an early grave. She would never know. She didn't _want_ to know.

Raoghnailt had not realised she had been staring at a photograph on the mantle, but when she finally did, she carefully picked up the frame. Beaming back up at her was her younger self and her father. She held her certificate in her arms, and her father looked down at her proudly before turning to smile at the camera. Something lurched inside of her and, grasping the frame, Raoghnailt quickly apparated to her rented flat in London, frantically packing a satchel with a set of robes and several bottles of liquor.

* * *

Raoghnailt brought the bottle of firewhiskey to her lips, the golden liquid hitting the back of her throat. It had been four days since she had been to the family home. Four days locked in her cramped office, finishing up paperwork and drinking herself to sleep on the sofa every night. No one had bothered her. Hell, no one knew she was there. She kept her lights off and curtains drawn shut during the day, only turning on a light well after everyone had left for the day. She wasn't entirely sure what day it was, but she had been more productive than she had been in months. At least she had that thought to comfort her.

She turned in the leather armchair, throwing one leg over an arm and leaning against the other as she took another long swig. Her thoughts were swirling and muddled in her mind, and they had been so for at least two hours. After nights of thorough introspection and self-analysis, she had reached the conclusion that her life was a terrible eighties song, stuck on repeat. But there wasn't anything she planned to do about it. No, certainly nothing to save her from her fixed behavior, her ambition.

A sudden knock perked her up. "Oi, Scrimgeour, you in there?"

"No," she called back, taking another swig.

"Rubbish," he grumbled on the other side of the door. "Alohomora."

She didn't look up at him, but she gathered he was taking in the view.

"Well, I'm impressed," he said simply as he crossed the distance to her desk.

"With what?" Raoghnailt asked, looking up at Scabior. He held an empty bottle in his hand.

"Y'really give new meanin' to 'expensive taste,'" he said, putting it aside and halfway sitting on top of her desk.

Raoghnailt snorted.

"Why're you here?" she slurred.

"Wanted ta see 'ow you were doin'. Apparently jus' fine."

She grumbled something incoherently before she brought the bottle back to her lips. Unfortunately, only one small drop came out. Frustrated, she placed the bottle in a pulled out drawer, full of similarly empty bottles, before wrenching open another and clumsily pushing things around her desk in search of a bottle opener.

_Liquor before beer...or is it beer before liquor_? she wondered. She set the bottle on her desk, turning forward in her seat. She wore a determined face when she finally found the bottle opener.

"I _fink_ you've had enough fer t'night, don't you?" Scabior asked, pulling the bottle from her grasp.

Raoghnailt stared up at him, wide-eyed. "Wha-, you...that's...mine," she finished lamely. She reached for the bottle, but he held it in his left hand, far out of her reach.

"Please?" she asked pathetically. She was tearing up.

He raised an eyebrow and tossed it to the sofa. It landed with a soft _thud_. Raoghnailt's hand fell in defeat onto Scabior's thigh, dangerously close to certain parts of his anatomy.

He tensed under her touch. She froze. Slowly, their eyes met. Unblinkingly, he finally plucked her hand from his person, although he looked pained to do so.

"As I said, y've 'ad enough. C'mon, let's get ya to the couch, eh?" he said hesitantly.

She made no objection and pushed herself up from the chair. She swayed, her knees giving out under her, but Scabior's arms wrapped around her waist. "C'mon," he repeated, easily lifting her and taking her to the worn leather sofa. He moved the beer bottle out of the way, placing it on the floor, before laying her down.

As Scabior pulled away, Raoghnailt's hand grasped the lapel of his jacket. He stopped moving, his dark eyes meeting hers.

"Raoghnailt," he said darkly.

"Shut it," she ordered, pulling him down to her and kissing him hungrily. His resistance didn't hold long, and he was quickly returning her kiss with as much eagerness, sinking down onto her. Her hands were everywhere at once. In her inebriated state, she wanted him. _Desperately._

He pulled away with a groan when her fingers traveled southward, though. He gave her a warning look, "Yer drunk."

"So?" she breathed, her fingers continuing their ministrations against the front of his trousers.

Having composed himself, he quickly swatted her hand away.

"Ya won't remember this in the mornin'."

"Good," she said, kissing him again.

His fingers brushed through her hair before he pulled away once more, shaking his head.

He stood, taking deep breaths. Raoghnailt hoped he was thinking of Umbridge and Fenrir going at it, as she had advised him to that morning at the inn. She smiled at the thought and watched as he turned to blow out the candle on her desk.

His V-shaped, leather-covered back was the last thing she saw before passing out.

* * *

**Sorry that half of this chapter was simply character background, but it needed to be done. And we have a nice introduction to what might very well be Raoghnailt's Achilles Heel at the end. _Harry Potter_ belongs to J.K. Rowling, I own that which you do not recognize from the series. Please review! Yours.**


	8. We Rarely Confide

"_We rarely confide in those who are better than we are."_ Albert Camus

Scabior awoke the next morning to some nameless woman from the pub curled against him, snoring lightly. He hardly remembered bringing her back to his room at The Leaky Cauldron. Now that he looked at her though, he realised how smashed he must've been.

She was hardly attractive at all.

He couldn't even remember if the sex was good.

..._But at least ya got it in, eh?_ He snorted.

Why had he gotten so drunk last night? Oh, right. Raoghnailt. Kissing him and touching him like _that_. Merlin, no wonder he was desperate for anything last night, he thought as he looked at the woman lying tangled in the bed sheet.

He slid from the bed, pulling on his pants and looking around for his trousers. Once dressed, he noticed a glass still sat on the bedside table, half-full of firewhiskey. He brought it to his lips and savoured it slowly, crossing to the window and looking out at the gloomy London morning.

Her breath.

Her touch.

Her lips.

Those fingers.

Her hair in his hands.

The taste of her mouth.

He pressed his forehead against the windowpane, letting out a long breath.

Turning, he placed the glass on the small table near the armchair before leaving the room. He didn't look back at the black-haired woman in his bed. She wouldn't miss him when she awoke. And if she did, well, that was too damn bad.

* * *

"Morning," Fenrir said gruffly as Scabior sat down beside him. "Good time last night?"

"Can't remember," Scabior said simply, waving over Tom.

Fenrir laughed, a loud booming laugh, "I'd say not with how much you drank last night."

"Same as usual?" Tom asked, in a bored tone.

Scabior raised an eyebrow, "Naw, make it _free_ bacon today, eh? 'Stead of the us'ul two."

Tom left the table and Scabior settled back into his chair, folding his arms over his chest.

"Something happen last night when you went to the Ministry?"

"How'd'ya mean?"

"Well, you got back here late, drank yourself into a stupor, and marched off with the first thing that threw herself at you. Normally you wait for some pretty little thing, even if it means sitting around all night."

He scoffed, "Didn't feel like waitin'."

"Couldn't wait is more like it," Fenrir mumbled.

Scabior shot his companion a glare.

"So you see her then?"

"See 'oo?"

"Scrimgeour."

"No."

"Said you did last night."

Scabior leaned against the table, "Did I now?"

"Yeah."

"An' wot exactly did I say?"

"Nothing much. Just that she was in a right state."

_Good_, he thought. _Nothing about_–

"And you might have mentioned that you wanted to shag her on that leather couch of hers," Fenrir paused thoughtfully. "No, wait, you _definitely_ mentioned that."

Scabior set his jaw, "I said no such fing."

A waitress carelessly slid Scabior's breakfast in front of him, a fork clanging after it. He glanced up at her, a scowl on his face, only to see that same black hair from this morning.

"Be more careful wiv my breakfast, an' I might tip ya nex' time," he sneered.

Just as he picked up the fork, the woman slapped him across the face. "How _dare_ you, you bastard," she said shakily.

Scabior stood abruptly, his chair falling to the ground behind him. He grabbed her roughly by the arm and pressed the tip of his wand to her throat.

"Would'ya like ta be repeatin' that?" he said lowly.

The entire establishment was silent.

"C'mon, say that again," he barked, shaking her.

She mumbled frantically.

"That even English yer talkin'?" he hissed.

"She meant no harm, Scabior," Tom said slowly. "Let her go, she's just a foolish woman."

Scabior turned to Tom, sheer disbelief consuming him. "Wot? 'She's jus' a foolish woman,' ya say?" he taunted.

Fenrir stood and placed his large hand on his friend's shoulder. "He's right-"

Scabior shrugged him off. "No, she oughtta be taught a lesson."

"Is that really necessary?" Tom asked.

Scabior's dark blue eyes flashed for a moment as he took in the black haired girl, tugging her closer to him so that he might inspect her for one last moment. He wanted to see the look on her face as the word formed on his mouth.

"Crucio," he hissed.

She writhed in his grasp, and other patrons winced at her screams or turned away from the scene altogether. Fenrir clicked his tongue and sat back in his seat. Tom looked on in horror, but said nothing, knowing that he could very well suffer the same fate should he question Scabior's actions.

Scabior, meanwhile, wore a sadistic smirk, pleased that this fucking ugly woman was being punished _justly_. What business did she have calling him a bastard?

And if Raoghnailt found out, she'd have no authority patronising him because, at the very least, the Cruciatus Curse was better than rape.

And infinitely more satisfying at nine in the morning.

* * *

"Scabior?" the sweet voice of Dolores Umbridge stopped him mid-step as he headed to the lifts from a brief, secret night meeting with her, Yaxley, Coleson, and some new bloke.

He turned, "Yeah?"

She quickly caught up to him, carefully adjusting her pink herringbone jacket when she stopped before him. If she wasn't his superior, he'd probably laugh at her stout appearance in that outfit. She looked like his Gran's pink teapot.

"Would you be a dear and get Raoghnailt out of her office? She cannot continue secretly living in there. One week has been quite enough."

He raised an eyebrow and huffed, "You fink she's gonna listen 'a me?"

Dolores raised her eyebrows, "I expect you'll be able to persuade her, yes."

Scabior sighed, looking over the woman's head down the dimly lit corridor, the wheels in his mind turning.

"See to it in the next hour, won't you? It's almost eleven."

"Yeah," he said, turning.

The entire walk to her office, he couldn't think of a single way to lure the stubborn and likely drunken Auror from her cramped room. He stood outside of her door for the better part of five minutes, absentmindedly tracing the letters of her nameplate with his dirty fingernail.

Rao. Scrimgeour.

This was the second time in two days he'd be entering her office at night. Maybe she was already passed out. Drawing himself to his full height, Scabior finally resolved to knock softly on the wood.

"Come in," her tired voice called from the other side.

He pushed open the door, looking first to the couch. Finding she wasn't there, he looked to the desk where she sat with her head in one hand, a quill in the other, and a blank form on her desk.

Her eyes flicked up at him.

He noticed an open bottle of wine next to her, maybe half a glass left.

_Well, here goes nothing_.

"I've been _instructed_ t'remove ya from the premises," he said, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest.

She sat back in her chair. Her cheeks were flushed, probably from the wine.

"And I'm supposed to go with you?" she raised an eyebrow, her expression otherwise blank.

"Well, unless yer goin' 'ome-"

"Absolutely not."

"Then I s'pose yer comin' wiv me."

They stared at each other for a long time.

She sighed in defeat, slumping forward, "Can I finish this first?"

Scabior shrugged, stepping forward to sit in the chair opposite her. "Wassat for?" he asked nonchalantly as he crossed his legs.

"Departmental request. Boring stuff."

"Can't be that borin' if yer workin' on it at this hour."

After a time, she finally responded. "It's a request for my father's things," she murmured, leaving her elegant signature at the bottom of the parchment with a flourish. She was so bloody pretentious.

Scabior said nothing as she folded and stuffed it into an envelope. Standing, she pulled a satchel over her shoulder and grabbed the envelope.

"Got ev'ryfing?"

She nodded, and they left her office, dropping the envelope in the secretary's outbox on the way to the lifts.

She was quiet the entire way to The Leaky Cauldron, trailing behind him as he went up the stairs and showed her to his room. Scabior shut the door behind her and then went to the bed, pulling off his boots. He stood to shrug off his coat and remove his cravat and vest. Raoghnailt hadn't moved from her spot near the armchair where she had placed her bag.

She never looked so small.

"Wha's wrong?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowed.

His voice seemed to snap her from her reverie and she shook her head before shrugging out of her robes and tugging her own boots from her feet. He uncorked the bottle of firewhiskey Tom had left him and poured a small amount into the glass sitting next to it as Raoghnailt padded over to the bed.

He snorted into his glass. She really did look like a small child, from the socked feet to the baggy knitted, green pullover. She shot him a look as she crawled into the bed. She sat back against the headboard, watching him like a hawk.

Scabior set down his empty glass and removed his shirt for good measure. He could feel her eyes on him as he splashed more firewhiskey into his glass, quickly knocking it back before he turned to the bed.

He sighed as he settled against the headboard, mimicking her position. She sat forward and looked at him over her shoulder.

_Bloody hell, she's weird_.

"Find me that int'restin'?"

She turned to him. "I might," she said honestly.

Not expecting this answer, Scabior straightened. Before he could retort, her hand reached forward. A ghostlike touch traced the outline of a small, rune tattoo on his chest. "Shelter?"

He looked down at where her hand now rested, raising an eyebrow when their eyes met.

"I took Ancient Runes," she offered.

He snorted. Of course she did.

She scooted closer to him. Her fingers slid up to his shoulder and down his right arm, tracing a light snake tattoo as it wound down his bicep. He tensed under her light touch.

"House pride?" she breathed.

He smiled gently when her wide hazel eyes looked up at him. Raoghnailt was lucky she was drunk. He never let a woman touch him so intimately.

Merlin dammit, why was he letting her now? Either he was going soft, or he found her endearing.

And, although he hated to admit it, it was probably the latter.

She shifted, her other hand sliding behind his shoulder. "And this one?" she whispered, her lips _so_ close to his.

"Sic semper tyrannis," he said huskily. Her eyes slid shut, and more than anything he wanted to-

"Thus always to tyrants," she breathed, the tip of her nose barely brushing against his. He closed his eyes at the sensation.

Neither dared move.

"Why didn't you stay last night?" she asked softly, her hand sliding around his neck as she hovered slightly above him. He said nothing in response, and they remained as they were for what seemed an eternity to Scabior.

Finally, she pulled away, rolled over onto her side, and fell asleep.

Scabior slid further into the bed and turned so that he was staring at Raoghnailt's back.

_You fucking idiot_.

* * *

**Well, that was a bit longer, I think! Jo Rowling owns the wonderful world of Harry Potter, and I that which you do not recognize from it. As always, do me the great honor of a review. I'm personally very pleased with how this chapter turned out, but I'd like to know what you think. Yours.**


	9. The Actions of Men

"_I have always thought the actions of men the best interpreters of their thoughts."_ John Locke

An overheated Raoghnailt awoke to a migraine. With a groan, she stretched, only to find her movement severely limited by an iron-grip around her waist. She chanced a look over her shoulder, her heart pounding when she saw the long, straight nose and messy dark brown hair of one particular Snatcher who drove her to her wit's end.

To further her horror, it seemed the neck of her pullover had slipped down her shoulder, and Scabior's mouth was pressed quite firmly to the exposed skin.

Raoghnailt shifted under the weight of Scabior's arm. He mumbled something, and his hand slid up her torso to cup her breast.

_What the hell, that's it_.

She slapped his arm. His steely eyes shot open to glare at her and he rolled over onto his back.

"Wot was tha' for?" he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. She didn't fail to notice how the snake tattoo on his arm stretched against the muscles there.

"Don't _touch_ me," she said shortly as she stumbled from the bed and over to the armchair. She sat down angrily and roughly pulled her boots over her calves.

"I didn't-"

Before he could finish, Raoghnailt had already snatched up her things and was out the door, slamming it shut behind her.

* * *

Raoghnailt sat at a table, staring down at the small menu already sitting there. She didn't fail to notice Tom leave the table he had just approached and turn her way.

"I'd like-" she began.

Tom pulled out the chair opposite her, "You alright?"

"Er, yes," Raoghnailt said slowly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You were pretty drunk when he brought you in last night. You don't remember?"

Raoghnailt didn't respond, instead looking down at the table and tracing a small crack in its surface with her nail.

"He hurt you at all?" Tom asked softly.

"You don't think I can handle myself? I'm an _Auror_, Tom," she snapped, agitated.

"Well, the _last_ one he took with him came back bruised and then he, uh," Tom lowered his voice to a whisper, looking around The Leaky Cauldron to be sure no one was eavesdropping, "he used the Cruciatus curse, by that very table over there."

"Tom, he and I, we didn't have– wait, he what?"

"The Cruc-"

"Yes, yes, I heard that. When was this?"

"Yesterday," Tom said, surveying her. He slowly stood from the chair, "I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him, but what'll you be having for breakfast?"

Raoghnailt stared up at the man in disbelief, before shaking her head. "Whatever's easiest," she mumbled, sitting back in her chair as Tom left to go take another order.

What was she going to do with that man?

She _prayed_ nothing happened between them last night, but drunken Raoghnailt was her own woman altogether. She always had been. Merlin knew Raoghnailt's file in Dolores' office was stuffed with dozens of incidents of questionable and disgusting behavior on account of her inebriated personality. Her father hated her drinking, but he was probably truly humiliated. Apparently, it doesn't speak very highly to a man's parenting abilities if his only daughter, for all intents and purposes his only _child_, goes out to the field for a capture in a drunken rage, killing a wizard who was only meant to be caught and put on trial.

A cup of coffee was gently placed in front of her. Raoghnailt glanced up at a raven-haired woman. She was taken aback by a purple bruise shiny on her cheek and a cut along her brow.

The woman flushed, "Sugar or cream?"

The words fell from Raoghnailt's mouth before she could help it, "I'm so sorry."

She was about to say something when she glanced up, dropped the cream and sugar on the table, and almost tripped over her own feet to get away. Confused, Raoghnailt turned to see Scabior swaggering over to her.

"Good t'see ya 'aven't left," he said, sitting next to her.

Raoghnailt rolled her eyes, scooping three spoons of sugar into her coffee and stirring it.

"Don't wanna 'ear about our _stimulatin_' conversation last night?"

Raoghnailt turned to him, "No, I'm rather more interested in what you did to that woman's face."

"Wot makes you fink I did somefing to 'er face?"

Raoghnailt raised an eyebrow.

"I like it rough, wot can I say?" Scabior said nonchalantly.

She sneered.

"And what, exactly, warranted the use of an Unforgivable?"

Scabior's face darkened, "'Oo told you abou' that?"

"I expect an answer."

He grumbled something incoherently, folding his arms on the tabletop and looking at the small candle in the center of the table.

"Sorry, what was that?" Raoghnailt prompted, taking a sip from her mug.

"She called me a bastard," he said, his eyes not leaving the flame.

Raoghnailt sighed, a look of understanding on her face. "Scabior, you're a grown man, you don't need to act like a schoolboy just because–"

"Like _you_'d know anyfing abou' it," he said harshly, glaring at her.

_Actually_...

Scabior's mother had been his father's mistress during the early years of an unfruitful and undesirable arranged marriage. His father only took in seven-year-old Scabior when his mother left to marry another man. If memory served her correctly, his father's wife and daughter constantly referred to him as "the bastard," though never around Scabior's father. Even at school, his half-sister would snicker about "that bastard" in the hallways.

She cleared her throat. "Regardless, using an Unforgivable is–"

"Yeah, I know, _unforgivable_," he said brusquely.

"I suppose that stay in Azkaban taught you nothing," Raoghnailt said flippantly, sitting back as Tom placed a plate of toast and eggs in front of her. A similar plate was put in front of Scabior.

She glanced at him. His kohl-lined eyes were set in a hard glare.

"You wouldn't know the first _thing_," he bit out, pushing past his accent for more proper English, "about stayin' in Azkaban."

"I've thrown enough men like you in there to know plenty, I assure you," she spat back.

"Oh yeah," he said, pushing his plate, and hers, off the table. Both fell to the floor rather unceremoniously. Other patrons glanced curiously in their direction, but quickly went back to their own business and kept their heads down when they realised a Snatcher and an Auror sat in their midst. Raoghnailt still held her fork in her left hand, and she slowly turned to him after setting it down.

Scabior leaned closer, his face inches from hers and his voice low, "D'you have any idea wot it's like ta be surrounded by Dement'rs all fucking day? Not see daylight? Eat soggy bread an' water ev'ryday? Listen 'a loonies screamin' all night? Wonder if y'll ever see yer friends agin? Yer family? A woman?" His eyes searched hers, "No, I don't fink you have _any_ idea at all," he finished venomously.

It was tensely quiet between the two, until Raoghnailt leaned forward. Her eyes uncontrollably flashed to Scabior's lips for a moment before meeting his eyes.

"You think you didn't deserve it?"

His eyes narrowed.

"If you ask me, _bastards_ who torture and kill their step-mothers and -sisters deserve nothing less."

With that, Raoghnailt swiftly stood and walked out the door.

* * *

**An interesting turn of events... Thanks to OhTex for helping with my dilemma before writing this chapter; you're magnificent! As always, Jo Rowling owns the Harry Potter world, and I own that which you don't recognize from it. Reviews will be great appreciated and rewarded with something, maybe. Yours.**


	10. Beings Like Himself

"_Man's enemies are not demons, but human beings like himself."_ Lao Tzu

Scabior shifted in his seat, setting down another empty glass on the bar. Tom glanced in his direction before returning to his own business.

"I'd like anover," Scabior slurred, glaring at the older man.

Tom sighed, "Don't think you've had enough?"

"Piss off," Scabior remarked as a full glass was slid in front of him.

Scabior had, quite literally, been sitting at The Leaky Cauldron's bar for the last six hours. He was not at all pleased with the morning's turn of events. How could that stupid woman be so damn seductive one evening, and the next morning such a bitch?

No matter.

The glorious thing about drinking was that it allowed you to get lost in your own thoughts. Let the hatred and anger stew. The more he drank, the more he was convinced Raoghnailt Scrimgeour needed to be taught a lesson.

An hour or two later, Scabior swaggered out of The Leaky Cauldron and into Diagon Alley proper. The earlier downpour had been exchanged for a light misting rain, and the street lamps gave off an oddly limited golden glow.

A woman with light brown hair rounded the corner and nearly bumped into him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, before hurrying off in the opposite direction.

The more he looked at her...

He followed her, taking his time. She glanced over her shoulder once before picking up speed. Getting an idea, Scabior disapparated and reappeared in an alleyway a few metres ahead of her. Just as she was passing him, he snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her to him.

"'Ello, luv'ly," he breathed in her ear.

She immediately began struggling in his grasp. He threw her up against the wall, covering her mouth with his hand.

"Now, now, why ya actin' like that? Seemed more 'an willin' last nigh'."

"I-I don't know what you're talking-" she began, her voice muffled.

"Raoghnailt," he interrupted her, unbuttoning his trousers with a gloved hand, "'ere's what's goin'a 'appen: I'm havin' my way wiv you, and then, well, I'll do wot I bloody well please."

"No, don't, I'm not-"

She struggled against him the entire time, tears sliding down her cheeks. Every time she cried out, he would only thrust harder or bash her head against the cold bricks behind her. She deserved this.

When he finished, he finally released her. She slid to the ground, barely conscious. After buttoning up and straightening his jacket, he squatted down next to her, gently brushing her hair aside.

"'Oo's the bastard now?" he whispered.

She let out a choked and bloody sob.

Standing, he proceeded to give her several swift kicks to the ribs before pulling his wand from its holster and using every curse he could think of.

He left the scene only when she was within an inch of her life. Underneath the grime and blood and Merlin knew what else, he couldn't even tell if she was breathing. No matter.

No Raoghnailt, no problem.

* * *

An unassuming Scabior stood next to Fenrir as the taller man blathered on about some Quidditch match or another. He wasn't really paying attention; Scabior was far too exhausted from the previous night's sport.

The Ministry lift stopped on the second floor, and several wizards moved to leave. When they cleared, Scabior found himself looking down at the very upset face of one Raoghnailt Scrimgeour.

_Wait, ain't she supposed ta be..._

"Scabior, I need to speak with you."

He looked up at Fenrir, and as they both took a step forward, Raoghnailt spoke up, "In private."

Scabior raised an eyebrow, but turned to Fenrir, "I'll see you an' th' boys at The Leaky Cauldron."

He followed Raoghnailt to her office which had been thoroughly cleaned and organised. She closed the door behind him, brushed past his shoulder, and leaned against her desk, her arms folded over her chest.

She looked at him, a sneer forming on her face.

"Wot?"

She reached behind her and threw a folded Prophet at him. He caught it, glancing at the article it was opened to. Some murder in Diagon Alley.

"Curious thing," she began stiffly, "apparently, Kingsley Shacklebolt and the other Aurors were under the impression that this article was about me. That I been raped and brutally beaten until I died in an alleyway."

Scabior raised his eyebrows before quickly skimming through the article. Light brown-haired woman of average height. The victim couldn't be identified– too badly beaten. A tall man, with long brown hair tied back, in a leather coat and plaid trousers was seen fleeing the scene.

Someone had seen him. They hadn't stopped him.

"Well, _obviously_, yer not, eh, overwise we wouldn't be talkin' now."

She stared up at him.

"Wot's this got 'a do wiv me?"

"Unless there is some wizard running around London who happens to dress in the same stupid manner as you do," she began, an eyebrow raised as she made a show of looking him over from head to toe.

"The witness reports are fairly detailed," she continued, motioning to a small stack of papers on the corner of her desk. "Lucky it _wasn't_ me who'd been killed, otherwise the Ministry would be facing quite the inquiry."

He tossed the newspaper in the empty chair and made to turn. Her hand on his arm stopped him.

"Scabior," she said quietly, her eyes slowly searching his face. "What I said yesterday morning, I didn't mean to be so," she paused, hesitantly removing her hand from him, "it wasn't my _intention_ to be so insensitive."

_What the fuck?_

"You can't take your anger out on helpless civilians," she said.

It was clear she was masking something, though. Something was bothering her. Something she wasn't letting on.

He could see it in those hazel eyes.

"Don't do it again," she said softly before returning to her desk.

Dumbfounded, he stared back at her.

"Tha's all? Yer not even gonna ask abou' it? Jus' a slap on th'wrist?"

She sighed, exasperated. "What warranted such a reaction, then? What could this woman, who _just so happens_ to look similar to me, have possibly done to you?"

"She wouldn't produce produce proper iden'ification."

Raoghnailt raised her eyebrows.

"Working alone now, then?"

"Goin' rogue."

"As I said, do _not_ do it again," she said frigidly, shuffling papers on her desk.

He scoffed.

"That's an order."

* * *

"Well, this ain't too shabby," Scabior said as the Snatchers entered a cozy inn in the wizarding neighbourhood near Southampton. There was a pub and stairs that led to several floors of rooms.

"Woman treats us well," Fenrir said gruffly, clapping Scabior on the shoulder before bounding up the stairs to claim a room. The rest of the Snatchers followed.

Scabior went directly for the bar.

"Firewhiskey, the best y've got," he paused for a moment, "put tha' on the tab."

The bartender nodded and Scabior went to sit near the roaring fireplace. He stared into the flames as they licked the logs for Merlin knew how long.

Someone had said something to Raoghnailt. She wouldn't have given a second thought to the murder otherwise. She was used to death. Her little brother, her mother, the victims of wizards and witches she was sent to catch, the dozen or so she had killed on her own, her father. And she very well knew _his_ record.

He knocked back the shot of firewhiskey in his hand. A man doesn't just kill immediate family members for no reason.

The scraping of a chair brought him from his thoughts.

"Mind if I join you?" Fenrir asked gruffly.

Scabior shrugged. Fenrir poured himself a drink.

"So how many mudbloods you think we're gonna round up here?"

"As many as I feel like fuckin' and torturin'," Scabior said brusquely. He smirked as he glanced at his friend out of the corner of his eye. "Many as _you_ feel like biting."

Fenrir laughed, "Now that's a plan if I've ever heard one."

As they continued to drink the evening away, the pair reveled in the glorious truth that they had no superior watching over their shoulders for a few weeks. They were free to eat, drink, and snatch as they so pleased. And, the best part, Raoghnailt was paying for everything.

It was almost midnight and Scabior had spent the better part of the last hour eying up a short brown-haired woman who sat at a high table with a few friends. She was a pretty little thing, and he had resolved to get her in his bed that night.

"You hear me?" Fenrir asked, interrupting his thoughts as he clumsily refilled their glasses.

"No, whaddya say?"

"I asked what Scrimgeour wanted."

"Oh, noffing. Just _ordered_ me not 'a rape an' kill wimmin."

Fenrir's eyebrows rose, "That's it?"

"Yeah. Somefing 'a do with that Diagon Alley murder."

"But that was you, wasn't it?"

Scabior shrugged.

Fenrir sat back in his chair and regarded Scabior for awhile.

"Wot?" Scabior asked gruffly, irked.

"What's your deal with her?"

"'Ow d'ya mean?"

"Do you two have a history or something?"

"Same year. Diff'rent 'ouses, obviously. Same pompous, controlling, know-it-all bitch we see t'day. We certainly weren't friends or anyfing."

Fenrir chuckled, "I'd imagine not. She's not the friendliest woman I've ever met."

Scabior smiled.

"But, in all seriousness, you like her well enough."

Scabior choked on his firewhiskey, "_Wot_?"

Fenrir fixed him with a look.

"I don't," Scabior grumbled.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of. She's certainly something to look at, and she handles you better than I've seen any other woman."

Scabior sloshed more firewhiskey into his glass.

"C'mon, mate, I won't tell," Fenrir teased.

"I don't," Scabior maintained, not looking in the werewolf's eyes. "Why'd ya even fink that?"

Fenrir shrugged, "Sometimes the way you look at her-"

"No, no, no, no, no. I just wan' a shag," Scabior interrupted, standing from his chair. "An' tha's exactly what I'm goin'a get."

"Just remember it's not Raoghnailt you're fucking, mate."

He left Fenrir at the table to finish off the bottle as he threw his arm around the young woman who he had been exchanging glances with all evening.

* * *

The woman, Katherine she said, left his room when they finished, leaving a naked and tired Scabior tangled in his bedsheets. He wasn't upset. On the contrary, he appreciated a woman who knew when it was time to leave. Especially after she had been a rather exceptional fuck.

As he lay there, absentmindedly stroking the rune tattoo on his chest, his mind turned to Raoghnailt. What was Fenrir on about? Scabior had spent the last fourteen years of his life locked up in Azkaban. And for Merlin's sake, Rufus and Raoghnailt Scrimgeour had been the ones to put him there. The ones who, after four months on the run, finally tracked him down.

Fourteen years.

Bloody hell.

Had it really been that long? The days, months, seasons, years so seamlessly blended together, almost like a bad dream.

And in some sick twist, he awoke from that dream to answer to this infuriating woman who had somehow managed to survive the Ministry turnover.

* * *

**Cue _Inception_ music? Just letting everyone know, WE SO EXCITED for Part 2! Ach, the trailer is perfect. Anyway, J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter Universe, I own that which you don't recognize from her creation. As always, do review. Just a warning, the next two chapters are going to be interludes- they're more background than anything. Yours.**


	11. A Finger's Breadth: Interlude I

"_Most men are within a finger's breadth of being mad."_ Diogenes

Raoghnailt breezed past the Inquiries desk, not particularly in any mood to speak with the perky, round woman sitting behind it. She was late, and only because she had spent the last three hours of the snowy December afternoon debating whether or not it was wise of her to come.

She reached the end of the corridor just as a healer opened the hidden doorway that led to the basement of the hospital. Raoghnailt slid through after one look over her shoulder to be sure she went unnoticed and ran down the stairs as quickly as she could.

Once at the bottom of the stairs, she let out a quick breath to compose herself, and pushed open the door, nonchalantly taking a right and strolling down the white, dimly-lit hall.

"Excuse me," a harsh voice called, "but visiting hours are over. Who sent you down here?"

Raoghnailt froze and turned on the spot to see a young, honey blonde healer glaring at her menacingly, hands on her hips.

"Joan sent me down," Raoghnailt lied. "I'm here to see my brother."

"Your brother? Ma'am, I don't know who you think you are, but-"

She extended her hand, "Raoghnailt Scrimgeour, Auror and Snatcher," she added for emphasis.

The girl's blue eyes widened, "Oh."

"So," Roaghnailt straightened, looking down at the name tag on the healer's chest, "_Bridget, _am I allowed to visit my brother or not?"

The woman sighed in defeat. "Fine, fine, but let me escort you."

"Thank you," Raoghnailt nodded gesturing for Bridget to lead the way.

"How has he been, my brother?" she asked, as they took a left turn.

"He hasn't eaten for a week," Bridget sighed. "We've tried everything. Otherwise he just, I don't know, mumbles to himself, sometimes screams in the middle of the night," she trailed off.

Raoghnailt took a passing glance through the window of another patient who stood at their mirror, violently tugging a brush through her hair as she screamed at the reflection.

Raoghnailt didn't even flinch.

Bridget stopped just short of her brother's door, "You can't stay for long; dinner rounds start in half an hour."

Raoghnailt nodded, "Very well."

The blonde slowly opened the door, "Baines, you have a visitor," she said sweetly.

As Raoghnailt stepped inside the bare room, Baines Scrimgeour, curled up on his bed and facing the wall, glanced over his shoulder. He slowly turned and sat up.

"Hey," Raoghnailt breathed, crossing the room when she heard the door shut behind her. She hesitant sat down in the chair next to Baines' bed.

"Hello," he said quietly.

She took in his appearance. His auburn hair was messy and unkempt, sticking up at odd angles. He looked thin and unusually pale, the youthful rosiness of his cheeks gone. The pullover he wore pooled in his lap, and his cheeks were gaunt and covered in light patches of auburn scruff. She had only ever seen Baines look so horrid, and that was in the month after her father had told him his mother was dead.

Raoghnailt clicked her tongue. "How are you?" she asked gently.

He stared blankly over her shoulder for a moment, before looking her in the eye.

"We haven't seen you in a long time."

Something in his hazel eyes flashed.

She sighed, crossing her legs, "I know, I'm sorry. They're keeping me ridiculously busy at the Ministry. If it weren't for the paycheck, I'd think I was a slave," Raoghnailt joked lightly.

"And Father?"

"You know how he is," she lied. "I never see him, and we work in the same department."

"Right," he said shortly.

"That aside, how are you? You don't-"

"Kill anyone recently?"

"What?" Raoghnailt asked, bewildered.

"He told me you killed those people," Baines said.

"Who?" Roaghnailt demanded, leaning forward in her seat. No one was supposed to talk to her brother, except the healers. No one knew he was here. No one knew he existed.

Baines pointed towards the door.

A crestfallen Raoghnailt didn't even turn around, "He's wrong."

"You let that man rape her and then you killed her with your own hands. We heard her screams, even from down here."

"Baines, I haven't killed anyone," she said firmly.

"You don't need to lie to me, Raoghnailt," he hissed bitterly, "I'm a grown man."

"Indeed you are," Raoghnailt mumbled.

He scooted closer to her, "What's it like?"

Raoghnailt blinked back at her brother, not saying anything. He blew a lock of hair from his eyes, his gaze unmoving.

He hadn't always been thus. She remembered when he was a sweet little boy. He occasionally said some odd things, but the friends he had were simply fragments of his imagination.

Or so they had all thought.

One summer night he came into dinner covered in blood, a smile on his face. Her mother had screamed and checked over every inch of Baines to make sure there wasn't a scratch on him. Instead of supplying their father with an answer when he demanded to know what happened, Baines offered to show him. Out of morbid curiosity and completely against her mother's orders, Raoghnailt followed the pair into the woods to find their neighbor's cat disemboweled and quartered in a small clearing.

After that, nothing was the same.

He burned all of their family photographs. He insulted and threatened the neighborhood children he had once played with. He attempted to curse Raoghnailt with her own wand. He screamed at his mother during dinners, insinuating she had poisoned his food. After several months of this behavior, their father had decided it was best he be committed to Saint Mungo's for treatment.

When treatment proved useless, Baines was placed in the mental ward and other Pureblood families were told he was dead. His name was on a gravestone in the Ludlow cemetery for all who doubted them.

It had been heartbreaking.

As a family, they never discussed the youngest Scrimgeour. Raoghnailt never spoke of him to the few friends she had in school. Her mother cried about it, she knew. Her father threw himself into his work. And Raoghnailt dedicated herself more fully to her studies, driven by the desire to be the child her parents could be proud of. All the while, Baines remained hidden away.

"Does Father know?"

"Know what?" she asked, sitting forward.

Her brother fell silent, his eyes closed. Finally, he whispered, "Harry's gone."

Raoghnailt took her brother's hand as the colour drained from his face. Harry, one of the voices, one of his _friends_, frequently plagued him. No good ever came of it.

His hazel eyes filled with tears and Raoghnailt reached forward, embracing her younger brother.

"You never visit anymore," he moaned, his face buried against her shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Baines," she whispered as she ran her fingers through his tangled hair.

His sobs stopped at long last, only to be exchanged with rage. Raoghnailt was flung onto the bed and Baines' hands wrapped around her neck.

"How could you kill her?" he hissed, his face an inch from hers.

Raoghnailt struggled, unable to say anything, and tried to kick her brother out of the way. He only pinned her legs down.

"She was my friend. Why would you kill my friend, Raoghnailt?"

She felt so lightheaded. Her vision blurred. Her brother's face above hers, so similar to her own. Almost like looking into a mirror.

And suddenly Baines was being pried from her and she bolted out of his reach, collapsing against the chest of drawers near the door. Another healer held her as she gasped for breath.

"Why would you save that wretch? It was nothing she didn't deserve. She _kills_ people. She killed my friend!" Baines bellowed, struggling against the three male healers holding him down on the bed. Another arrived with a potion, no doubt a sedative of some sort.

Having composed herself, Raoghnailt pushed the healer holding her away.

Just as the vial was brought to her brother's lips, Raoghnailt gathered her courage and turned.

"Happy thirty-second, Baines," she choked out.

Even from across the room, she could see a flash of sadness, a flash of the old Baines, in his eyes.

* * *

**I sincerely hope this wasn't boring or confusing, but it'd been brought to my attention that Raoghnailt and Scabior's backgrounds are fairly mysterious. That needed to be fixed. (EDIT: Just to be clear, Baines is severely mentally unstable; he hears voices, he sees things, and so on.) The next chapter will be a Scabior interlude, and then it's back to the storyline proper after that! As you know, Rowling owns _Harry Potter_, and I own all the new things you didn't recognize in this chapter. Please review. Yours.**


	12. Bear With Equanimity: Interlude II

"_A son can bear with equanimity the loss of his father, but the loss of his inheritance may drive him to despair_._"_ Niccolò Machiavelli

It was an exceptionally cold evening outside of Salisbury. Scabior sat watch, occasionally stoking the fire with a stick.

Scabior let out a shaky breath, visible on the air, and he stuffed his hands under his arms. It was certainly December. They had orders to be in Bristol by week's end, though if Raoghnailt thought she'd have them working on Christmas, she was bloody mad.

A surprising amount of the boys had asked for a few days off so that they might spend time with their girlfriends or parents or what have you. And while Raoghnailt might have been less than obliging, Scabior gave them all the go ahead.

_Like she'd have anyone to spend Christmas with anyway_. _Not that you do either_, he mused.

Not entirely true, though. Somewhere out there in the world he had a mother. She just hadn't wanted him. He wondered what she would think of him now. Her pureblooded bastard boy, sprung from Azkaban to round up mudbloods and blood traitors for the Ministry and the Death Eaters. Regardless, it was certainly a step up from what he'd been doing after Hogwarts.

He sneered at the thought of that fucking school.

While many graduates boasted the years they spent at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were the most magical of their lives, Scabior found those seven years to be dreadful and drawn out.

Of course, his older half-sister Theodora didn't do much to ease those years. Always calling him a bastard, disgracing his name and that of his mother, Octavia. Saying he'd never amount to anything. Hell, Scabior didn't need to _try_ to alienate anyone; Theodora had managed to do it for him.

"I don't even know why Father keeps you 'round," she'd say, "we've got 'ouse Elves for a reason."

At first he ignored her. But then she got more creative.

"Oi, Bastard, put y'self to good use an' let me try this new curse, will you?"

"The Giant Squid 'asn't drown you yet? Pity that."

"Where've you been? Fuckin' some stupid third year? We certainly don't need anymore bastards runnin' 'round this place."

More than a few times, she ended up in the Hospital Wing with a broken nose or damaged by a particularly nasty curse.

He snickered. He probably spent more time sitting in detention than he did in actual classes. It's not to say he wasn't intelligent. On the contrary, he maintained some of the highest marks in his year, though he'd never admit it.

He did attend Defense Against the Dark Arts regularly, though. It was the only class of any interest to him at all. Seven years and he only ever missed one, and that was because Professor McGonagall had demanded seeing him after class.

The _one_ day he missed class sixth year was the day partners had been assigned for projects. It was that fateful day he was paired with Raoghnailt Scrimgeour. When he approached her after class, having been informed of the unfortunate hand of being paired with the quiet Ravenclaw, she simply stared up at him with a raised eyebrow and informed him in the haughty voice to meet her in the library at seven o'clock.

Being Pureblood, he was well aware of the Scrimgeour family. They were old money from Ludlow with a summer home in the Lake District. Her younger brother died the summer before third year, and her mother drank herself into a grave a year after that. Her father was an Auror who preferred his work to remarrying, though Scabior's father seemed to like the man well enough. And Raoghnailt spent most of her time with her nose buried in some book or casually practicing spells with the few friends she had. She was always first to volunteer in class demonstrations and was more than happy to correct anyone if they were wrong.

"You're late," she had remarked when he approached the table later that evening.

"By two minutes," he grumbled, taking a seat.

"Look, I'd much rather do this work on my own, and I'm sure you'd rather be working with someone else."

"'Ow'd ya guess?"

"Right, I'll do most of it, and we can meet Thursday to look over it. Agreed?"

He'd shrugged and carried on with the rest of the week. Obviously, he'd done some work, taking notes and whatnot, but nothing too involved. Besides, you could always depend on a Ravenclaw to get work done, and do it well. So he met her at the same table that Thursday to finish the essay and work on the finer points of their presentation. She conducted the whole thing more like a business transaction that a group project, but the sooner they finished, the sooner Scabior would be off to go shag Lauren Rutledge in a broom closet.

Scabior was tugging the quill from a skeptical Raoghnailt's hand to make a correction to their essay when Theodora had rounded the corner. She stopped in her tracks and smirked at the pair.

"Well, well, well, look's like the bastard's got 'imself a girlfriend. A _Scrimgeour_, at that. Fancy movin' up in the world, eh?"

Scabior glared at her, prepared to retort when Raoghnailt spoke up next to him.

"Oh, piss off."

Scabior's eyebrows rose and Theodora's jaw had fallen open as they turned to look at the usually reserved girl.

"Excuse me?" Theodora asked.

"You heard me," Raoghnailt said, plucking the quill from Scabior's hand and finishing off the sentence. "Piss off."

"An' 'oo do you fink you are tellin' me that?"

Raoghnailt calmly placed the quill on the table, "Clearly someone who doesn't need to take shit from a bitch like you, so, as I said, _piss off_."

Theodora looked between the two for a minute before stomping off, completely flabbergasted.

Raoghnailt gave a self-satisfied nod before picking up the quill and looking at her notes, penning the next paragraph. Scabior sat back in his chair, looking at her. He remembered wondering who the hell this girl was and why hadn't he found her before.

She cleared her throat as she continued writing, "Am I that interesting to you?"

Scabior leaned forward, looking over his notes, "Why'd ya do that?"

She shrugged, "She irks me."

Perhaps a minute or two later, she sadly added, "And no one deserves to be treated the way she treats you. She's your sister, for Merlin's sake."

"That 'asn't stopped 'er from sayin' fings before."

Their eyes met.

"I might not like you, but I don't think you're the person she says you are. You can't be all bad," she said sincerely.

Well, he had certainly proved her wrong there. He _was_ all bad. He stole antiques and dark artefacts to turn a profit in the underground market. He gambled his money away. He drank. He slept with more women than he cared to count and didn't remember a single one of their names. He barely spent time at home while his father drank and gambled his own fortune away with his more prosperous Pureblood companions.

Scabior had been by no means a respectable young man. His father was concerned about him. Caesonia, his step-mother, and Theodora would gang up on him when he did pop by the house, saying he would end up living on the streets, was running with the wrong crowd, and so on. What did they know? He'd inquire into Theodora's marital prospects- why had she gone through six proposals since graduating and not one ended in marriage? Surely that was far more embarrassing to a Pureblood family when the legitimate daughter couldn't ensnare a respectable husband.

His father died a few short weeks after Scabior's twenty-fourth birthday. He was convinced, even to that very day, that Caesonia and Theodora had poisoned him. Surprisingly, much of what was left of his father's estate was left to him. That upset the two women the most. How could Caesonia's husband leave his estate in the care of his bastard? It was unheard of.

When Scabior came to claim his share, the two refused to leave the house and burned his father's will before Scabior's very eyes. That was the last straw.

At long last, the years of degradation and rage bubbled to the surface of Scabior's psyche, and he snapped. He bound them up, beat them bloody, and, finally, hours later when they begged, he killed them.

Two words were never easier to say.

And then he was on the run. Four months, he hid and ran, and hid and ran. It was on a cold December evening, much like the one he presently experienced, that Rufus and Raoghnailt Scrimgeour burst into the small country cottage he had been living in for a week. He had drawn his wand, but Rufus hissed a quick "Expelliarmus!" It flew from his hand and he was thrown backwards. Raoghnailt threw a binding spell at him. Ropes wrapped around his wrists and ankles, and a motionless Scabior looked up at his former classmate. She'd changed. She looked so much different than he remembered. Hell, she looked right fit. This woman who, not seven years ago, had claimed he couldn't have been all that bad.

And as she stood above him, her head cocked to the side, he wondered if those very words ran through her mind.

Her image haunted him those fourteen years, though he loathed to admit that he thought of this obscure and strangely beautiful woman. He remembered thinking that once he was out, if that ever happened, he would see her again. He didn't even know her, but, more than anything in the world, he wanted to tell her she had been wrong.

And now, fourteen long years later, he got to remind her of her mistaken assessment on a daily basis. And he was damn proud of that.

* * *

**So ends the (hopefully not too) boring background interludes. I unfortunately have finals this week, so I won't be updating until the weekend. Until then, _Harry Potter_ belongs to J.K. Rowling, and I beg of you to review...The lack of reviews on the last two chapters saddened and worried me greatly! Yours.**


	13. To Trust Others

"_It's good to trust others but not to do so is much better." _Benito Mussolini

Raoghnailt sat at her desk, shuffling files absentmindedly.

_Is this all you bloody do?_ she wondered, carelessly tossing the papers and files aside.

There really was no purpose whatsoever for her to be there. She had no paperwork to finish, and she certainly wasn't still at the Ministry for the enlightening and festive company, as brightly coloured as Dolores' wardrobe had been this last week.

No, she was sitting in her small, cramped office on Christmas Eve because she had nowhere else to go. A pillow and blanket, which she had brought from her rented flat, sat neatly on the worn leather sofa in the corner of her office. Deep in her heart, Raoghnailt knew she should have gone back to the house in Ludlow, but that thought repulsed her. And she couldn't bear to spend Christmas alone amongst bare and peeling walls in London's West End.

There were too many things that reminded her of what Christmas used to be, no matter where she stayed. Before her brother went mental, before her mother withered away, before she became an Auror.

Raoghnailt scowled, glancing at her calendar before picking up a stack of memos she had yet to leaf through.

Four months since her father had been murdered. Four months since she had narrowly escaped a similar fate. She was innocent. She had no part in this so-called war. Her father told her nothing of the Potter boy, the Order, or his possible involvement with either. It wasn't Raoghnailt's place to know, nor did she care to.

As ever, she remained the ambitious Auror that she had always been, more determined now to redeem herself of her past transgressions. Her father, the only person she really had in this world, was dead. The least she could do was be someone he could be proud of.

But that was increasingly difficult when the men she was put in command of constantly infuriated her, went against her orders, or disrespected her on the mere fact that she was a woman. What was even more frustrating was that stupid man, Scabior. Despite everything, he still thought it acceptable to be abusive and cruel. Apparently, fourteen years in Azkaban had taught him nothing. He was truly an atrocious individual.

At the same time, though, she had to admit that did care for him, even a little. She had seen the hurt in his eyes when she'd called him a bastard, the pain when he described his time in Azkaban.

Raoghnailt's thoughts were interrupted as Scabior swaggered through her open door and into her office. This was not the Christmas present she had been expecting.

She didn't look up from the memo in her hand, "Can I help you with something?"

"Well, aren't we cheerful?" he said, plopping down in the wooden chair in front of her desk and crossing his legs.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be? Bristol, perhaps?"

"Luv, it's Christmas. Couldn't be bov'red ta work, could I?"

"Then why, may I ask, are you in my office?" she asked, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Figured I migh' pay a visit t'my fav'rite Auror," he said cheekily.

She rolled her eyes.

"An' what're ya doin' 'ere in yer office then?"

"Working."

He raised his eyebrows as his dark lined eyes scanned the stacks of files and papers arranged on her desk.

"Right, well then I've come ta offer some comp'ny."

She groaned, "_Please_ go away."

He didn't say anything for awhile, and she crumpled up a few memos. She could feel his eyes on her.

_What the hell, he should still be fuming. He must be up to something_.

"'Ows about," he began, leaning forward, "you an' me get dinner."

"No," she said firmly, sitting back in her chair. "Definitely not."

"Raoghnailt, luv," he said tenderly, "it'll be fun. You, me, some drinks, see where the ev'ning goes an'-"

"Look, as _lovely_ as I'm sure your company is," she interrupted, "I would rather not."

Another silence settled over them, and she started rifling through papers once again to distract herself from her growing agitation at his presence.

He clicked his tongue and stood suddenly. "C'mon, then," he said, "I'll pay an' ev'ryfing."

When she didn't move, he placed his hands on top of her papers, preventing her from moving them. "Look, I'm not lettin' ya spend Christmas Eve in yer office 'cause I figure yer used ta havin' comp'ny 'round the 'olidays, so _you_ 'ave two options: dinner wiv me, or dinner wiv me."

She regarded him warily, folding her arms over her chest. "And what do you get out of this arrangement?"

He stared blankly at her, "I've got no one to spend th'evening wiv either."

"Greyback's not around?"

"Somefing about 'is clan, or sommat."

Raoghnailt didn't move, but mulled over several different scenarios in her mind. _One_ drink couldn't really hurt, could it?

"Yeah, up you are, then," he said as she finally stood and pulled her coat over her shoulders.

It was a short walk to The Leaky Cauldron, not exactly Raoghnailt's first choice, but it would do. They sat at a table tucked away in a dark corner near the fireplace. Apparently, Scabior had wanted some privacy, though she was sure that they could have sat in the middle of the restaurant and, on mere reputation, cleared the tables around them in minutes. No one would want to sit too close to a Snatcher and an Auror, especially so close to a holiday that people generally wanted to share with their families.

She was completely silent as Scabior placed their orders. She had refused to talk since leaving her office, quite bothered with her decision to join him. Honestly, what would be the worst he could have done if she refused?

_Rape and beat you. Leave you dead in the alleyway._ She bristled at the thought.

Two glasses of ale, two shots of Schletter's Fine Whisky, and a bottle of Ogden's Old were placed on the table. Scabior immediately downed a shot before turning to his beer.

Raoghnailt balked at the sight, and she was certain the colour had drained from her face.

"You," he said, pointing at the array of alcoholic beverages before them, "drink."

"I'd, ah, rather not, thanks."

"Look at you, all prim an' proper. I fink I've seen ya at yer worst, so go on then," he said, sliding a shot glass to rest in front of her clasped hands on the tabletop.

"I won't tell anyone," he said with a wink.

She gave him a look, and he shifted in his seat so that he faced the fireplace. Raoghnailt quickly tossed it back, the warm liquid burning the back of her throat. It was a welcome sensation as she placed the glass loudly on the table.

Raoghnailt pulled her beer glass towards her, happily taking a long gulp of it as Scabior watched her. She didn't even care anymore that he was sitting across the table from her. When presented with drinks, may as well drink them.

"Y'know, I fink ya've gotten weirder since school," he said nonchalantly as their meals were placed in front of them. She had done quite the number on their beverage selection in the thirty minutes they had been sitting there.

"Yeah, well, I could say the very same about you. Except I wouldn't say you were _weird_," she slurred.

"Ah, this is int'restin'," he said, leaning his elbows on the table. "Wot d'ya call me then?"

Raoghnailt made a show of looking him over, "Repulsive."

He let out a bark of laughter. "I'd drink to that," he said before taking another swig.

The two sat in their corner long after their plates were cleared and only a few customers remained. Scabior had since moved his chair so he was sitting right next to her. Raoghnailt was drunk, but not to the extreme that she would have been had she spent the evening alone.

"Wot's it like, then, bein' an alcoholic?" Scabior asked, taking a sip from his glass, his eyes meeting hers.

"Uh, what?" Raoghnailt asked, sitting straighter in her chair.

He studied her for a moment, "Ya don't remember?"

"Remember what?" she asked, a drunken panic setting in. Oh Merlin, what had she done?

He shook his head.

She stared into her nearly empty glass, ashamed. Clearing her throat, she decided to answer him.

"It's embarrassing. I think Dad hated me for it. I always drink alone. I don't remember what I did the next morning, only to do the same thing again the next night. Sometimes I can last a few months, but sobriety doesn't really suit me," she finished softly.

She could feel his eyes boring into her. It made her uncomfortable.

"Well, tha' was," he paused, "a s'prisingly honest answer."

"Can I ask you something?"

He shrugged.

"Of all people, why would you ask me to have dinner with you?" She leaned forward. "I mean, you do hate me, after all."

"I do," he smiled wickedly.

"Because my father and I caught you?"

"'Cause yer a righteous bitch 'oo tries ta tell me 'ow 'a behave."

"Oh."

He took a long drink before he leaned towards her, their forearms touching, "As I've said, already seen ya at yer worst, I wan'ed 'a see the process, if you will."

Raoghnailt rolled her eyes. If only she could remember the 'worst' he was talking about.

"Now, I've got a last question fer _you_."

She nodded, finishing off a shot.

"Remember tellin' me that ya didn't fink I was all bad sixth year?"

Raoghnailt thought for a moment, her mind sluggish. "Er, yes."

"Ya still fink that?"

For a long time, Raoghnailt didn't respond. She didn't know how to. She finally turned to look at him, finding his face much closer to hers than she had expected.

"I-" she began, her eyes glancing down at his parted lips.

"No," she breathed finally, finding herself being pulled to him by some invisible force. "You're a terrible person, and I don't trust you."

Their noses had barely brushed against each other's when Tom unceremoniously dropped a basket of bread on the table. The clatter sent them flying apart. "Sober up, you two, it's Christmas," he ordered before turning to leave.

After stuffing themselves with several rolls, Scabior announced it was time to go. Raoghnailt insisted that he take her back to the Ministry, and they began the slow trek to the public toilets. She stumbled a few times before a chuckling Scabior intervened and held her against him, much to her increasingly sober embarrassment. He pushed the door to the Gentlemen's entrance open and led her to a stall, opening it with a coin.

"I can go to my own toilet, thanks," she said, only to find herself being tugged into the stall after him.

Once at the Ministry, it was an awkwardly quiet lift ride to the second floor, but Scabior refused to let Raoghnailt go to her office alone. He pushed her door open, finally released her. She turned to look at him suspiciously before walking to her desk.

"Look, ya can walk in a straight line agin," he commented dryly.

She shot him a glare. "Ha, ha," she said sarcastically, pushing papers aside. She stopped suddenly, though, when she accidentally glanced at the picture frame sitting on the corner of her desk.

Time seemed to slow as Raoghnailt tenderly lifted it, emotions contorting her usually calm and indifferent features. _Dad... _

Scabior, after a moment's hesitation, crossed the room and came behind her desk, pulling the frame from from her hands and setting it down. He grabbed her chin with his rough fingers, forcing her to look up at him.

In an instant, Scabior's lips pressed firmly against hers in a kiss that was clearly desperate to erase the painful memories that tortured her. It quickly turned hungry as one of his hands slid further down her back, and she held tightly to his shoulders, pressing her body against his. She gasped when one hand smoothed over her ass, giving it a brief squeeze. Scabior took advantage of the moment and slid his tongue into her mouth. For once in Raoghnailt's recent memory, she wasn't angry with him.

Only when the two finally needed air did they part.

"'Appy Christmas," Scabior murmured against her lips before turning on his heel and retreating from her office.

Raoghnailt collapsed back into her chair after he disappeared, her fingers on her mouth as she swiveled to face her desk.

_Happy bloody Christmas indeed._

* * *

**I know I said I wouldn't be updating till the weekend, but ISolemnlySwearIAmUpToNoGood kind of kicked in my paper-procrastination. I'm sorry if parts of this were eerily similar to the oneshot I did in the Christmas collection. I had to use some of it, but it's been quite drastically changed...Hm, hope this change in Scabior and Raoghnailt isn't too sudden? As always, Ms Rowling owns _Harry Potter_ and I own that which you don't recognize. Please review! Yours.**


	14. Eyes Turned Skywards

"_Once you have tasted flight, you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return." _Leonardo da Vinci

Scabior set another empty glass on the bar of The Leaky Cauldron. He motioned for Tom to refill it as he started in on the row of shots in front of him. He had been sitting in the same spot for hours. He'd been asked several times to move, but Scabior was less than obliging.

He had been sitting in this very same chair since the New Year's Eve crowds had rushed in. Fenrir would be turning up anytime now. He was sure of it. Having had almost an entire week of banging his way through whatever women threw themselves at him, drinking, and having a damn good time sprinkled with moments of introspection and confusion, he needed another opinion.

Tom slid a full glass of ale towards him just as Fenrir approached, "Fancy seeing you here."

"I fink I asked ya ta meet me 'ere, eh?"

Fenrir moved to pull out a chair next to Scabior, even though it was already occupied. "Excuse me," the young dandy of a man began, turning around.

"I think this chair's mine," Fenrir said lowly, drawing himself up to his full height.

The man stared up at him, stammered, and scrambled from the chair, pulling his girlfriend after him. They disappeared into the crowd.

"That's what I thought," Fenrir grumbled, sliding into the seat. "So, how was your Christmas?"

Scabior set his glass down and turned to look at his friend seriously. "I snogged the fuck out 'a Raoghnailt."

Fenrir choked on the shot he had taken from Scabior's row. "You _what_?"

Scabior looked back at him evenly.

"Well, that wasn't exactly the answer I was expecting," the werewolf trailed off.

Scabior grunted, taking a long sip.

"How was it, then?"

Scabior shrugged.

"Ah, I see. You liked it, didn't you?"

Scabior stared into the golden liquid.

"You _really_ liked it," Fenrir teased, nudging Scabior with his elbow.

"Oi, watch it, you tit," Scabior barked, spilling some of his drink on the counter. He brushed it dry with his sleeve.

Fenrir laughed and leaned closer to Scabior, "So, then, what've you brought me around for?"

Scabior shifted uncomfortably. He never liked asking others for things, especially guidance. This was just weird.

"I've jus' been finking-"

"About Raoghnailt?"

"Well," Scabior sighed in defeat, "yeah."

"You don't know how you feel about her?"

Scabior looked at him. _'Ow the hell'd 'e know?_

"So?"

"She's annoyin' as 'ell, finks she's too good fer anyone, only wants 'a get ahead in 'er job," he paused, taking a long sip. Fenrir looked at him expectantly. "But I _fink_ tha' was th' best snog I've 'ad in a damn long time. _And_ she's got 'erself a nice ass. I felt it."

Fenrir snorted, "She's good looking, I'll give you that. I'd shag her."

Scabior's eyebrows raised.

Fenrir laughed, "She's all yours, mate, don't worry. I think you're more her type anyway."

"Well, ain't tha' a comfertin' thought. She's too diff'cult. Not worf th' trouble."

"Then why're you thinking about it?"

Scabior squinted and took another shot.

"She's confusin', s'all."

"Intriguing, you mean?"

Scabior scoffed. There was no woman out there in the world of any interest to him, especially not the lonely and cold Raoghnailt Scrimgeour.

"C'mon, she's kind of an enigma, don't you think? Really, what do we know about her? What's Coleson know about her up there in the north? Aikin? You probably know Scrimgeour the best of all of us, and you don't know all that much. That's fucking attractive. The possibility of figuring out that mystery– almost as good as the chase."

"Listen 'a you, like some bloody wimmin's magazine," Scabior grumbled.

"You give her hell and complain about her more than I would dare to, but she tolerates it well enough. Don't think she'd take that from anyone else."

"So, wot, yer sayin' she fancies me?"

"No."

"We snogged 'afore las' night. An' she slept wiv me the nigh' after tha'," Scabior blurted before he could stop himself. "I mean, she's drunker than I've ever seen, but-"

"Did you _sleep_ with her, or-"

"Jus' the bed. She was touchin' me a lot, though."

"I'm impressed," Fenrir smiled.

"Now, tha's not the major concern, though." Scabior lowered his voice, "I fink about 'er all th' time."

"'All the time?'"

"When I'm wiv over wimmin. Some brunette floosy the over night, some blondie, shit I ain't even got 'a be wiv someone 'oo looks like 'er, and I'm finking about 'er the whole damn time."

"And it helps?"

"Er," Scabior, for the first time in a long time, felt the heat rising in his cheeks.

Fenrir chuckled, "So what's the problem, then?"

"B'cause it's _her_."

"But–"

"I can't stand 'er. The though' 'a her."

"Right," Fenrir said, rolling his eyes.

"It's true!"

"If you've been spending your holiday thinking about her this much, and you poured your heart out to me about it," Fenrir said dramatically, "I think you care for her more than you're willing to let yourself believe."

As Fenrir continued to blather on, Scabior started thinking.

No. There was no bleeding chance in Hell that he cared for Raoghnailt.

_Alright, that's a lie_.

Because he did care about her, at least a little bit. He wouldn't have kissed her otherwise. She was relatively sober, as was he. He'd just never seen her so upset. She was supposed to be this hard ass, powerful Auror and she looked like she was about to start bawling.

And, for Merlin's sake, she's technically his superior. What kind of reassurance would that give him, to see her crying like some stupid little snit on the list?

He kissed her for the sole reason of preventing that from happening. Because then even he wouldn't be able to respect her.

It was all about respect. Their "professional" relationship, as it were.

_Stop lyin' to yerself_.

So, the snog was fantastic. He'd wanted that since the first time she had drunkenly attached herself to him. Thus he took advantage of the opportunity when it presented itself that early Christmas morning. And she reciprocated.

"Look, you wanted my opinion, this is it: You fancy her in your own twisted way, right, because she's attractive, because she's your superior, because she threw you in Azkaban. Mate, when it registers that we shouldn't be able to have something, we want it that much more. Be it a woman or a nice, rare piece of meat, we want it and we'll go to any length to get it."

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Scabior turned to Fenrir, "Tha' was righ' insightful."

"You agree with me, then?"

Scabior considered it for a moment. There was some truth behind his friend's words. Clearly, he wanted her physically. That much was obvious.

"But do I wan' 'er fer a good fuck, or somefing-"

"A bit more serious, I'd imagine. Though a shag never hurt anyone."

Scabior snorted, "I fink yer wrong, there."

He was anything but a relationship fellow. No, his style was more shag and go. Even before Azkaban, if a woman wanted something more from him, he'd walk. No point wasting time. He wasn't one for snuggling, or treating a woman to dinner, or whispering sweet little nothings in her ear while tenderly making love under the stars.

Fuck that shit.

He wanted Raoghnailt sexually and that was it, Scabior concluded.

"I know what you're thinking, and I'd say you care for her a bit more than an hour in bed."

"Oh, wot 'a you know, anyway," Scabior grumbled. Silence settled between the two men as both turned to their drinks, occasionally scanning the crowded pub for a familiar face or, in Scabior's case, for any unattached women he could possibly drag upstairs with him.

His eyes settled on two young ones, probably early twenties he guessed, who had been eyeing him every time he turned around in his seat.

"Well, fanks for the advice, even if it's rubbish," Scabior said, standing.

Fenrir nodded, "Any time."

"I'm off ta formulate a freesome, so I'll see ya-"

"Tomorrow. We're supposed to be back out in the field tomorrow."

"Right," Scabior said before making his way through the crowd to the two women. He had just begun chatting them up when he noticed a head of familiar brown hair weaving in and out of couples. He watched as she reached behind the bar, grabbing a bottle of Firewhiskey while Tom's back was turned. Their eyes met just as the clock chimed midnight and the two women he had situated himself between kissed him on each cheek, respectively. He chuckled in what he hoped was an amiable fashion, though his eyes never left Raoghnailt's.

"Ladies, I fink we should celebrate this momen'ous occasion somewhere a bit more private," he slurred, wrapping his arms around their shoulders. He wanted to get out of that damn woman's presence.

* * *

A naked Scabior reclined on the bed as the two women drunkenly snogged for his own personal amusement. He reached forward, pulling the brunette towards him and kissed her fully on the mouth. Her fingers wove through his hair as the ginger started working on things down below.

Then, suddenly, her name crossed his mind.

_Raoghnailt_...

_Dammit._

_That cunt_.

_Fuck._

_Shit._

A slew of curse words rolled past his lips as he pushed the woman away. Of course _she_ would ruin a perfectly fine way to ring in the new year. She didn't even have to be around to upset him.

"What's wrong?" one asked, exchanging a look with her friend.

"Leave," he said gruffly, too frustrated with himself to continue.

"But-"

"I said go!" he bellowed. They scrambled to grab their clothes and hurried out of the room.

Scabior let out a frustrated cry as he fell back into the pillows.

The thought of her was like a plague. Or some venereal disease. Or an addiction.

More than likely the latter.

And Scabior needed to do something about it. Either break the habit, or throw himself into it with every fibre of his being.

* * *

**Sorry for the delay, all! I've had spotty internet connection, but I'll try to have another chapter for tomorrow. J.K. Rowling owns _Harry Potter_, and I own that which you don't recognize. It would really mean a lot if there were some reviews...as opposed to two. Yours.**


	15. Of Pains and Troubles

"_Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?"_ John Keats

A fuming Raoghnailt apparated onto some random Manchester street. Ministry employees were flitting about, going door-to-door to wipe clean the memories of the muggles who had just witnessed a rather dramatic, rumour had it, chase.

Not two and a half weeks into January, she was pulled from Edinburgh to clean up the mess Scabior and his motley crew had left in their wake in the wee, cold hours of the morning.

"Ah, there you are, Scrimgeour," Jamie Martin grumbled, approaching her. "Wondered when you'd come around. You heard what happened, then?"

"Barely," she said, following him down a narrow alleyway to the entrance of the wizarding neighborhood the Snatchers were _supposed_ to keep to.

"Well, I'll give you a brief rundown, then. _Your_ Snatchers decided it might be fun to spend the evening in a muggle pub. They left without paying, turned down that street there, and spotted a wizarding couple who they gathered looked suspicious. Turned into a rather large duel in the middle of a residential area– all the muggles saw it from their windows. Your boy, Scabior, killed one of 'em. The woman's been taken back to the Ministry by that tall ginger fellow. If they hadn't been on the list, Raoghnailt," he said, stopping in front of an inn's door, "you'd have more paperwork on your hands than I could even fathom."

"Lucky, that," she grumbled, folding her arms over her chest.

"As it were, you'll have plenty to do anyway. Glad I'm not in your position."

Roaghnailt rolled her eyes, "Cheers."

"Well, in you go then," he said, opening the door. "Get out of this cold and give 'em hell, yeah?"

"That's the plan," she said, giving the blonde man a nod before going inside. The innkeeper motioned up the stairs when she looked at him, "Last door on the left."

She didn't even knock, instead throwing the door open and stalking into the room. Scabior lounged in an armchair, his jacket on the table next to him.

"What do you think you're doing?" Roaghnailt yelled, slamming the door shut behind her.

Scabior looked around the room and shrugged, "I fink this is called relaxin'."

"Oh," Roaghnailt sneered, "_of course_ that's what you're doing. 'Relaxing.' Think it's funny, do you?"

"Don't b'lieve I laughed, luv, but–"

"Merlin dammit, Scabior! What the _fuck_ were you thinking? Let's just go get drunk at a muggle fucking pub, waltz down a muggle street, _lined with houses_, and start throwing curses everywhere because we _think_ we might have found two people on the list. Who gives a shit that at least twenty families will be watching from their windows? Ah, even better, let's just kill one of them, because that'll be _loads_ of fun, I reckon," she bellowed, her voice growing tighter with each word.

Scabior's eyebrows raised as she stood there, her chest rising and falling as she tried to calm herself.

"Do you even know," she said lowly, "how much trouble this has caused the Ministry? How much trouble _I_'m going to be in? All the paperwork I'll have to fill out and reports I'll have to make just to cover _your_ ass?

While you stupid Snatchers are out here prancing about, someone is still responsible for you, and that _someone_ is _me_," she spat. "Your behaviour reflects poorly upon _me_. You can get away with things, being the scum that you are, but _I_ cannot. _I_ have a name to uphold. A reputation."

Raoghnailt was so upset she could kick something. She felt a migraine coming on and a small voice in her head had already started prescribing copious amounts of alcohol.

"I just don't understand where you get off thinking that you can just do whatever the hell you please, without repercussions. Fuck, if I acted the way you did, I'm sure I'd have been thrown in Azkaban too!"

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "You are just _such_ a fucking bastard," she said, exasperated, her mind still reeling. There were so many other things she wanted to say to him, but she couldn't keep her thoughts straight.

Scabior shifted in his seat, "That it, then?"

Raoghnailt was about to retort when Scabior stood from his chair and crossed to her in three long strides. Before she could even form a word on her lips, he grabbed her chin and kissed her roughly on the mouth. It took her a moment before she gathered her wits and pushed him away.

"The hell do you think you're doing?" she hissed, stepping backwards.

"Wot I wan' 'a do," he said simply, reaching for her again. She turned her head and his parted lips brushed against her cheek. She could feel him deeply inhale against her temple. It sent shivers down her spine.

Without warning, he pushed her against the wall, his mouth hungrily claiming hers once more. She didn't know why, but she felt compelled to return it with the same fervor. She was angry at him. She was going to be buried under massive piles of paperwork for a month, and he, quite clearly, did not give a damn. He was repulsive, disgusting, infuriating, _intolerable_.

She heard her wand clatter to the ground as he tugged her coat off. He was now kissing her wherever his lips happened to land as he struggled with her clothing and the tie holding her hair in its braid.

Before she knew it, his hand had curved under her bottom and lifted her up against the wall. She automatically wrapped her legs around his hips as Scabior pulled her blouse open, a few buttons falling to the ground.

He pressed his lips against hers again, her fingers grasping his shoulders. Raoghnailt gasped, trying to catch her breath, as his hot mouth trailed along her jaw and down her neck.

He nipped her collar.

"Stop," she ordered.

He did it again, pulling back with a smirk on his lips as he looked in her eyes, as if challenging her to forbid him.

She moved to slap him, but he grabbed her wrist, slamming her arm against the wall over her head. He kissed her again, and she couldn't help but lean into his mouth. His hand wrapped around hers, their fingers lacing. His other hand massaged her breast.

"For the record," she breathed when they broke apart, "I hate you."

"'Ow much?" he murmured, his forehead pressed against hers.

"So fucking much," she bit out.

"Good," he sneered before turning and carrying her to the bed. He was quick to pull off her trousers and panties before bending over her, a hand wrapped in her hair as he kissed her deeply. Raoghnailt tugged the lapel of his coat to draw him closer to her.

In her blind anger, which was quickly morphing into some pathetic form of desperation, she wanted nothing more than to be as physically close to Scabior as possible.

His fingers trailed down her exposed side, curling around her hip and sliding further still to soothe the ache between her legs.

"Eager, are we?" she gasped.

"Could say th' same 'bout you, eh?" he teased as she writhed under his touch.

She couldn't take it anymore and her hands pushed past his to unbutton his trousers, pushing them and his trunks down his thighs.

"Thank Merlin," Scabior groaned in relief, grabbing her hips and pulling her further down the bed towards him, leaning into her and finally taking her.

Moans, grunts, grudging reminders of hatred silenced by quick kisses marked the relatively short, hot, and desperate frenzy to reach their climaxes. As Scabior held himself up a few inches from her, she avoided meeting his eyes, though she could feel his studying her as they caught their breath, tangled on top of the comforter.

She wanted him off of her so she could escape. Never in her life had she felt so ashamed of and disgusted by her own behaviour.

At long last, he pulled away from her, kicking off his boots. He turned and started to undress. Raoghnailt was quick to pull her trousers back up and button them, before taking one last look at Scabior's back and quietly making her exit.

Once back in her own room, she peeled her clothes from her clammy body and proceeded to wash, feeling as though she were covered in dirt and grime. Given that she'd just had sex with a Snatcher, the feeling was surely warranted, but she knew she was more disgusted that it had been with _him_.

How could she have allowed that to happen? She's in charge of him, she's his boss, for Merlin's sake. Further, she detested him more than she thought it possible to hate a person. He was completely vile, every inch of him. From that stupid red streak in his hair to his calloused feet.

At the same time, though, that was exactly what she needed. It'd been..._ Four years, already?_ since she had had a decent shag. And, damn it, all the practice he boasted about surely yielded results.

She nearly gagged at the thought.

This wouldn't change anything.

It was an accident. She was angry. He was...

She didn't even like him.

He was good for one thing, and that was snatching.

Alright, _two _things: snatching and...sex.

Raoghnailt groaned, pressing her forehead against the cool tile of the shower.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

* * *

**Well...yeah. I suppose it was bound to happen, I just hope I haven't lost any readers because of this. Um... [Insert regular disclaimer here.] Please review...Yours.**


	16. A Man Can Be Without

"_He was as great as a man can be without morality."_ Alexis de Tocqueville

Scabior turned around and was, admittedly, rather disappointed to find his bed unoccupied. For once, he wouldn't have minded Raoghnailt hanging about. Maybe for another go, or just to keep his bed warm. He didn't care either way.

With a sigh, he crawled under the blankets. He'd never seen her so angry. He couldn't help thinking she was quite the fox all wound up as she was. Underneath that nonchalant, all-business exterior, there was a shouting, stomping and swearing woman who, quite clearly, liked things a bit rough, as evidenced by their little tryst.

Seeing her like that...Something inside of him changed. And now, as he lay there under the sheets imagining what it would have been like had she stayed, he resolved that he wanted her. And he would do anything in his power to make her his, in the most sexual way possible.

* * *

The next morning, Scabior loped down the stairs and, having spotted Fenrir, made his way to the pub for some breakfast.

"Morning," he said, settling into an empty chair.

Fenrir looked up from the pile of rare meat on his plate, giving Scabior the once over, "Surprised to see you up this early."

"Why d'ya say tha'?"

Fenrir opened his mouth to respond when his beady eyes focused on something behind Scabior. Scabior turned to see Raoghnailt gliding down the stairs, tugging on her cuffs. She didn't even glance their way before leaving, the door slamming shut behind her.

"Wonder wot tha' was all abou'," Scabior shrugged, picking up a piece of toast.

Fenrir snorted, "I think you _know_ what that was all about."

Scabior raised an eyebrow. "I don't fink I do."

"Well, I'm to suppose that you two were just wrestling last night?"

Scabior choked, "Wot?"

Fenrir leaned in, "The walls aren't that thick, mate."

"Right."

"So, was it as good as you were expecting?" Fenrir asked, taking a large bite of meat. Blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth.

"Better," Scabior admitted.

"Good for you."

"Yeah," Scabior grumbled. "'Oo else d'you s'pose knows abou' it?"

Fenrir shrugged, "Just me, I'd reckon, and I only heard 'cause my room was right next to yours."

"Ah."

"Either way, I've the feeling we won't be seeing Scrimgeour around for awhile. She's got quite a bit to sort out at the Ministry. I almost feel bad for her."

"'Ey, we was just doin' our job."

Fenrir barked, "No, I meant I feel bad that she won't have the pleasure of sleeping with you for awhile! She sounded like she enjoyed herself."

Scabior stared at the werewolf for a moment before he burst out into laughter.

* * *

Two weeks passed, and Scabior was as frustrated as ever. They had just captured a rambunctious group of teenagers, all on the list, and were waiting about the Ministry for clearance to be on their merry way. Fenrir was tied up in some lengthy discussion with Yaxley, and muted feminine wails could be heard as Scabior leaned against the stone wall outside of Dolores Umbridge's office.

They'd been about the Ministry several times since the incident in Manchester, their capture rates having skyrocketed. Fenrir joked that it was Scabior's newfound determination to please Raoghnailt that led to such success, which Scabior brushed off as complete rubbish. He'd been just as good at his job all along; the people on the list were just getting sloppier as the cold winter weather set in.

And besides, there was no impressing Raoghnailt. Not when she barely spoke to him, and when she did it was only to scold him for something or give him new orders.

For all intents and purposes, it seemed Raoghnailt Scrimgeour was completely unphased by their late-night romp. And that idea irked Scabior more than anything.

Because he couldn't go one night without thinking about her. It was bloody stupid. Weak. Pathetic.

How could _he_ be like this, and she goes about like nothing happened?

He sighed, deciding he would maybe take a stroll about the second floor, when Raoghnailt, accompanied by some blonde tosser, rounded the corner. She had a large stack of folios and papers in her arms, and she looked thoroughly annoyed by the man blathering on beside her.

Scabior smirked, deciding he would be helpful, and knocked on Umbridge's door.

"Deliv'ry," he called as Raoghnailt stopped in front of him. He smirked at her, pushing open Umbridge's door. He pulled it shut just before the blondie had the chance to follow her inside.

He fixed Scabior with a glare. Scabior raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest, "Can I 'elp you wiv somefing?"

"No, but if you don't mind I'm going to wait here for Scrim-"

"No, ya ain't."

"Excuse me?"

"See, I fink yer annoying 'er. So, if I was you, I'd be scoo'ing along righ' abou' now, eh?"

"And who are _you_ to decide who she spends her time with?"

Just as Scabior was about to retort, the door opened and Raoghnailt stood between the two men.

"Scabior, with me," she said, taking off at a brisk pace towards the lifts.

"Er, bye, Raoghnailt," the blonde called awkwardly. Scabior glanced over his shoulder at the now down-trodden man, a smirk on his face.

"You have no idea how insufferable that man is," she hissed as they came to a stop at the lifts.

He assumed she was insinuating a thanks somewhere in there, "Anytime."

He followed her into the crowded lift. Wrapping his hand around the same strap she held, he stood behind her. He couldn't resist inhaling the smell of her hair. He couldn't quite place it–something woodsy and feminine at the same time. But he liked it. He relished it, even.

As the lift lurched to a stop and the gates opened, Scabior followed her to her office. It was dark until she stepped inside, revealing an unusually disorganised room. Papers and folders were tossed about, empty bottles lay around the rubbish bin, though none actually seemed to make it inside. Several quills were scattered about her desk, with large ink blots having stained several spots on its clear mahogany top.

Raoghnailt grumbled to herself, picking up a memo and scanning it before tossing it aside.

Scabior cleared his throat, "So, 'oo was tha' fellow, then?"

She straightened, "You're still here?"

She shook her head, "He's just...someone. I don't really know him, but he seems convinced I'm taken with him. Or something to that effect."

Raoghnailt unceremoniously sat in her chair and picked up a quill, scribbling something in the margins on a piece of paper she had pulled out from a drawer.

Unsure what to do, Scabior finally closed the door and sat on the arm of her sofa. She huffed as he did so.

"Is there something I can help you with, or are you just trying to piss me off?"

"Snippy, are we."

"Do you see all this?" she asked, gesturing around wildly. "I'm drowning here, I'm positive half the reports I just turned in to Dolores are completely incoherent because I finished them in some drunken rage last night, and I have pricks like Martin and you following me around for no reason whatsoever. _You_'d be snippy too."

Scabior settled against the wall, "Know wot you need?"

"What?" she asked, exasperation evident in her tone.

"A decent sha-"

"No," she interrupted. "That is the _last_ thing I need right now."

"Well, I'm 'ere if ya-"

"No, no, no, no, _no_."

"Ya weren't sayin' tha' in Manchester," he murmured smugly.

"That's it," she said, slamming the quill's tip against her desk. It crunched. "_What_ do you want from me, hmm? Because this is unproductive, and I might even gag if you keep on like that."

A flash of anger went right through Scabior as he stood and crossed the small distance to her desk, placing his hands on top of it. He looked down at her. The shock on her face said it all; she was completely caught off guard and didn't know what he was up to.

"Wot do _I_ want? I'd like if _you_ acted like somefing actu'lly 'appened a'tween us, 'stead 'a carryin' on like this."

"Wha-"

"Yer pretendin' nofing 'appened. Tha' you didn't sleep wiv me. Fact, you've been ignorin' me since, unless ya have ta talk t' me. I won' 'ave it."

With that Scabior, reached forward and pressed his lips against hers.

He pulled a breath away for a moment. Her eyes remained closed as he looked at her. She leaned forward, standing now, as if wanting more.

"You can't pretend tha' didn't 'appen. Or this," he breathed, going in for another deep snog.

"Or this," he trailed kisses down her jaw.

"Or this," he took the liberty of giving her neck a bite, certain it would bruise quite nicely in the next day.

He returned to her lips one last time, wanting nothing more than to take her right there on the desk.

"I expect I'll see you 'round then," he breathed before leaving a stunned Raoghnailt as quietly as she had left him that morning.

If she wasn't as tortured now as he'd been feeling for the last two weeks, then Merlin damn him.

* * *

**Glad the last chapter was well-received! As usual, J.K. owns the wonderful world of Harry Potter, I own that which you don't recognize from it. Please review! Yours.**


	17. Bones With Another

"_Man is an animal that makes bargains: no other animal does this – no dog exchanges bones with another." _Adam Smith

"This it?" Greyback asked, staring ahead at a rather strange house, like a rook in Wizard's Chess.

Raoghnailt squinted, "Yeah, this'll be it."

Scabior, followed by the rest of the Snatchers, had already started down the hill towards the house. A flustered Raoghnailt watched as they strode by, before she composed herself and hurried after them. They couldn't just waltz up to the door, kick it down, and grab the girl. They did have her father to deal with, after all. No, they were going to do this Raoghnailt's way, the _civilised_ way.

"Scabior," she hissed, finally catching up with his long strides.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, "Raoghnailt."

"You let me handle this, alright? She's not on the list, the Death Eaters want her, _unharmed_, if I'm correct."

Scabior rolled his eyes, coming to a stop. The other Snatchers carried on, only Greyback pausing for a moment to look at them.

"Say, jus' this once, I'm nice. Wot'll I get ou' ov it?"

"What do you want? A treat or something?" Raoghnailt asked, thoroughly confused. _Is he some kind of dog now?_ she wondered.

Scabior reached forward, pushing the scarf around her neck down. "Tha' looks righ' nice," he commented.

Raoghnailt flushed, pushing his hand away.

He took a step towards her, but she refused to back down. "I let ya do fings yer way now, an' I'll get 'a do fings _my_ way tonigh'," he breathed, his fingers now brushing through her hair.

"You're ridiculous," she grumbled as she turned and continued walking. It wouldn't be too bad, his terms anyway. Truth be told, since he had so suddenly left her in her office three days ago, a part of her wanted nothing more than a repeat of that night in Manchester, minus the yelling and anger. She didn't like him, Merlin no, and he definitely was not the type of man she would normally go for, but there was something about him that some overly-repressed part of her found alluring.

So, she decided, if sleeping with Scabior meant that she would get to take the girl under her own terms, no raping, no dueling, none of the usual Scabior behaviour, then she was willing to make that sacrifice.

Scabior caught up to her after a moment, "Then I guess we'll be doin' fings-"

"Fine," Raoghnailt interrupted.

"Wot?"

"I said fine," she repeated, "to your _deal_, if that's what you want to call it."

"Really?" his disbelief was evident.

Roaghnailt fixed him with a glare, "Have you ever known me to be a liar? No. It's a deal."

"It's a deal," he repeated, as if letting the words sink in. They reached the small group that had stopped not ten metres from the house.

"Right, but that means this lot will guard the outside of the house, and you, me, and Greyback'll go inside. You won't touch her, you won't even look at her. Greyback, if you even _think_ about sinking your teeth into her, and, trust me, I'll know, you'll both be outside."

Both Scabior and Greyback made to protest, but Raoghnailt interrupted them, "Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Greyback grumbled incoherently but nodded.

Scabior smirked, "Crystal."

Raoghnailt knocked on the door. Scabior stood beside her, his back turned. Greyback was looking at the signs hanging about and chortling every now and then.

"Who lives here again?" he hissed.

"Shut up," Roaghnailt snapped, knocking again. "Open up. I know you're in there," she called.

Scabior started humming softly. She elbowed him in the back and he fell down a step. "Oi, wotch it," he grumbled.

They waited two more minutes. Raoghnailt heard shuffling inside.

"Wands out," she whispered, slowly pulling hers from its pocket inside her coat. She turned the doorknob and hesitantly pushed it open.

The house was crowded with books, newspapers, and old copies of The Quibbler. Someone started whistling as the door swung open and hit a chair.

Scabior came to a stop behind Raoghnailt, "Wot's yer plan, then?" he breathed against her ear.

Just as Raoghnailt opened her mouth to respond, Xenophilius Lovegood appeared at the top of the spiral staircase.

"Excuse me, Mr Lovegood, would you mind coming downstairs for a moment?"

"Oh, er, yes, of course, one moment," he said, disappearing again. When he returned, he held a teapot and slowly descended down the steps. He went straight to the sink, his back to Raoghnailt.

"Mr Lovegood, you know why we're here-"

"Would you like some tea?" he asked, looking over his shoulder at her. He seemed completely unphased by the werewolf and Snatcher flanking her.

"That'd be lovely, thank you," Raoghnailt said softly. "Where do you keep your cups?"

"Uh, just there," he motioned towards a cabinet. Raoghnailt nudged Greyback to go look for them, as she quietly made her way towards the stairs.

Raoghnailt started up the stairs, but a gloved hand wrapped around her wrist. She looked down at Scabior. "Wot're ya doin'?" he mouthed.

She motioned up the stairs. "Keep him busy," she mouthed back.

He glared at her for a moment before releasing her. Raoghnailt proceeded to climb the staircase, every now and then looking back to the kitchen to see Scabior awkwardly making small talk with Xenophilius Lovegood and Greyback inspecting the tea cups he pulled out.

Raoghnailt was quick to look around the second floor, carefully nudging doors open, lifting the lids of trunks, looking behind curtains. Finding nothing, she continued upstairs. Much to Raoghnailt's surprise, a young girl with long blonde hair sat at the window. Calmly, she turned to look at Raoghnailt.

"You're with the Snatchers outside, aren't you?"

Raoghnailt straightened, "Yes."

Luna Lovegood studied her, "But you aren't one of them."

"No, I am not, I'm just-"

"You're in charge of them, I know. You're Raoghnailt Scrimgeour," Luna paused thoughtfully. "I don't think you're a vampire," she said finally, her head cocked to the side.

Raoghnailt smiled, knowing the Quibbler article to which Luna was referring. The one that claimed her father was a vampire, which would lead to the assumption that she was too.

"I most certainly am not."

"Are you going to take my father away?"

Raoghnailt tapped her wand against her thigh. How was she supposed to capture this girl? She was no threat. She could be of no help to the Death Eaters. This was simply going to tear her father apart.

"No," she sighed, "it's actually you who we're here for."

Luna Lovegood blinked back at her, an O on her lips.

"You aren't going to run, are you? I'd rather this be as painless as possible," Raoghnailt said honestly.

Luna shook her head.

"Your wand, then?" Raoghnailt asked, looking around the room for it. Seeing it, she crossed to the desk and curled her gloved fingers around it. She then turned to see Luna standing near the stairs.

"I'm not a Death Eater," Raoghnailt said, looking into the girl's clear blue eyes. "I've just, this is my job. I can't say no. And if I hadn't come, well, I couldn't even begin to describe the things that would have been done to you."

"I understand," Luna said.

As ropes sprang out of the tip of Raoghnailt's wand and wrapped around Luna's wrists, she felt overwhelmed by guilt. This was wrong.

"You're going to have to choose, though."

Raoghnailt's brows furrowed.

"Which side you're on."

Raoghnailt's face hardened, "I know."

"I hope you choose the right one," Luna said, a sadness in her tone.

"I'll try to," Raoghnailt said, gently nudging the girl down the stairs. They had just reached the second floor when a loud boom and shouts floated upstairs.

Raoghnailt glanced at Luna, pulling her after her as she flew down the staircase.

Greyback held Mr Lovegood in an iron grip, Scabior's wand was at the man's throat.

"Drop your wand and let him go _right_ now," Raoghnailt ordered venomously.

Scabior bristled at the sound of her voice, and Greyback's grip on the terrified man loosened.

"What's 'appened?" someone asked, leaning in the doorway.

"Nothing. We're done here, let's go." Raoghnailt snapped.

* * *

Having delivered Luna Lovegood to the Death Eaters at the stately Malfoy Manor, the Snatchers returned to Devon to spend the night at an inn in Plymouth.

Raoghnailt sat in her room, hugging a bottle of Firewhiskey to her chest, overwhelmed by the day's events. She was normally unaffected by things, but something about Luna Lovegood and her father bothered her. Maybe it was their complete and obvious innocence in this war, but it was probably that she was reminded of her own childhood. She couldn't imagine someone coming to take her away from her father. And, though her father was an introverted man, she knew he wouldn't have been able to live without her. Not after losing his son and his wife. To lose his daughter would have been too much.

Raoghnailt could only imagine the pain Mr Lovegood suffered now, not knowing how his dear Luna was being treated at the hands of the Death Eaters.

A knock on her door brought Raoghnailt from her thoughts, and she clumsily stood to open it.

"Yes?" she asked warily.

Scabior took in her appearance, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Oh, what do you want?" she groaned, turning to set the bottle on the bedside table.

"Makin' sure you keep up yer end of th' bargain," he said, closing the door and slipping out of his boots.

"Scabior, can we do this another night?" she asked half-heartedly, her shoulders drooping.

He came up behind her. "Hm, lemme fink about it. No. I did wot ya asked 'a me, more er less, so–"

Raoghnailt turned, pulled his face down to hers, and kissed him fully on the mouth. His scruff pricked her palms, but she didn't care. She didn't want to think about the Lovegoods or her own father tonight.

Moving to the bed, their kiss turned into a heated frenzy to remove one another's clothes and touch every inch of exposed skin. Unlike the last time, Raoghnailt was sure to trace the line of his jaw, to feel the muscles in his arms and shoulders, the patch of hair on his chest. Finally out of their restraining clothes, Scabior wrapped his arms around her as she sunk into his lap with a soft moan.

Their breaths intertwined as they moved with one another. She smiled against his lips, laughing when she realised something.

He pressed his lips against hers, "Wot's so funny, eh?"

"I thought we were doing things your way," she breathed.

He smirked, rolling her over so she lay on her back as he hovered above her.

"Oh, we are."

* * *

Scabior didn't leave her room once they had finished, instead stretching out on the bed with his arms behind his head and the blanket pulled up to his hips. Raoghnailt lay against the other set pillows, studying him. It was clear he intended to stay the night. She huffed, sat up and grabbed the mostly full bottle from the nightstand, bringing it to her lips.

"Wot're ya doin'?" Scabior asked, pulling the firewhiskey from her hands.

"Give that back," Raoghnailt demanded, reaching for the bottle.

"No, I'll not 'ave ya drunk. Ya get weird."

He set it on the floor near his side of the bed. Raoghnailt leaned further over him, attempting to pick it up. Instead, Scabior's arms wrapped around her middle and he slammed her back onto the bed.

They glared at each other for a long time, neither moving, until Scabior leaned down and snogged her, his hand curling under her thigh.

"Go ta bed," he said, pulling away. He blew out the candle before settling into the bed, his back to her.

Raoghnailt stared at the tattoo there. _Sic semper tyrannis._

She sighed.

"Scabior?"

He grunted.

"Do you feel bad about what we did?" she whispered.

"No," he said gruffly. "You shoul'n't ei'ver. Jus' followin' orders."

"Right," she said softly. She stared at his back until she couldn't keep her eyes open anymore, finally falling into a fitful sleep.

* * *

**Sorry that I switched up the canon timeline a wee bit with Luna (late January instead of late December, for those who didn't notice). I hope it hasn't offended anyone too terribly, but so it goes. As usual, J.K. Rowling owns _Harry Potter_, and I own that which you do not recognize from her series. Please review! Yours.**


	18. A Spice of Jealousy

"_Lovers may be–and indeed generally are–enemies, but they never can be friends, because there must always be a spice of jealousy and a something of Self in all their speculations."_ Lord Byron

Scabior woke up to something moving restlessly under his arm. With a quick glance out the window, he knew it was still early in the morning. The sun had yet to rise. And here he was, in bed with Raoghnailt tossing and turning against him. He thought he heard her mumble something before she rolled over suddenly, facing him.

In the moonlight he could make out her worried features. He instinctively raised his hand and smoothed some hair back from her forehead. Momentarily, he wondered what she dreamt of, but the thought quickly dissipated when her eyes flew open. In that one glance, Scabior felt as though she could see right through him. Knew him inside and out. It was unnerving.

She shot up, the sheets pooling in her lap as she pinched the bridge of her nose.

"It was just a dream, it was just a dream, it was just a dream," she murmured.

Scabior stared at her back as she sniffled and rubbed her eyes and continued whispering to herself. Surprisingly or not, he wasn't one to offer comfort. Instead, he stared intently at her. He noticed a small birthmark near Raoghnailt's shoulder in the shape of a tiny star and a couple faint scars. He sighed, sitting up next to her and running his hand through his hair. He didn't know what was troubling her, but he could take a few wild guesses.

Without hesitation, he leaned over and faintly traced her spine all the way down to the small of her back. She straightened with a gasp, but didn't turn to face him, nor did she make any effort to stop him. Her sniffling continued. His hand moved back up and wound itself into her hair. He pressed his lips against her shoulder, her neck, her jaw, her temple. Her hand slid to the inside of his thigh before she turned to face him fully.

"Scabior," she breathed. He kissed her with an urgency he never felt before as her fingers began feather-light, teasing ministrations. He doubted she would remember this in the morning–even he could tell she was half-asleep. But he'd take it for what it was worth. He pushed her over, pulled her legs up around his waist, and guided himself into her.

Raoghnailt's moans escalated until he pushed her over the edge, his name on her lips the most delicious sound he had yet heard, urging on his own release as she writhed under him.

They lay there, panting. She kissed his cheek, his neck, the tip of his nose. Her hands smoothed over his shoulders. He kissed her deeply in return. He was a bit foggy too, he sleepily realized.

_A man could get used t' this_, he thought.

Maybe this was just a dream. Maybe it wasn't. Whatever it was, Scabior planned on this happening again, perhaps, at some point in the foreseeable future as he turned over onto his back and pulled Raoghnailt against him before drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

A week or two had passed since they had handed Luna Lovegood over to the Death Eaters. Scabior was visiting the Ministry briefly to turn in a few young mudbloods who had just been captured near the Welsh border outside Whitchurch. Since their little deal and two good romps, Scabior had been avoiding Raoghnailt. He wasn't entirely sure why, but there was some nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach whenever he thought about her.

"Scabior!" she barked down the corridor. He continued swaggering towards the lifts. He had business to attend to.

She called his name again. He huffed before turning to face her. Unexpectedly, she was but a few metres from him, not the other end of the hall as he thought.

"Yes, ma'am?" he purred, giving her a long look over from head to toe.

"Where in Merlin's name do you think you're going?"

He paused, raising an eyebrow, "The pub...Got meself date with a slinky little minx, as it were."

He made to turn but her hand hooked on his elbow. "No, I don't think so," she said darkly.

"Got somefing better planned, 'ave ya?" he replied huskily as he drew impossibly close to her. A few passers-by gave them curious looks, but knew better than to get involved.

"Come with me," she replied tersely before brushing past him and walking towards the lifts.

He stood painfully close to her on the short ride to the second floor. He couldn't resist snaking his arm around her hip. The fabric of her trousers was soft against his calloused fingertips. The lift came to a lurching stop, and he followed closely behind her to the door of Raoghnailt's office. He pulled the door open for her, motioning in a forced gentlemanly manner for her to enter first.

Raoghnailt rolled her eyes. He pulled the door closed behind him, turning the lock quietly.

Her office was dark, but he could see papers scattered everywhere. She leaned against her desk, her arms folded over her chest.

"Now, who's avoiding who?" she demanded.

"Wot'ever d'ya mean, love?" he replied cheekily, stopping a breath in front of her.

She huffed. "_You_ are the most pathetic excuse for a–"

"Fer a what?" he interrupted, removing his gloves and tossing them on the mahogany desk behind her. Her eyes didn't leave his hands as he reached forward to unbutton her trousers. She made no protest.

He drew closer to her, one hand slipping into her now unbuttoned trousers, the other raising her face to his.

"Fink I'm ignorin' you now?" he breathed against her lips. She squirmed.

"That's not fair. This isn't–this isn't appropriate," she managed between gasps.

Scabior quickly turned her around and pulled her trousers down to her thighs. He quickly undid the zipper of his own trousers and pressed into her. She moaned underneath him.

He had just gotten into a steady rhythm when a sharp knock interrupted them.

Scabior and Raoghnailt froze.

Another _knock, knock, knock._

Scabior leaned forward. "Don't even _fink_ 'bout sayin' anyfing," he whispered against her neck.

"Raoghnailt?" a man's voice called. "You in there? I thought we were supposed to meet at half five?"

"Shit," Raoghnailt hissed.

A sudden rage filled Scabior, and his hand clamped around her throat.

"And just 'oo would tha' be?" he demanded quietly, his thumb running along her jaw.

"Oh, Jack, I think I saw her leave with that Snatcher," a feminine voice replied.

Silence and then he heard footsteps retreating from Raoghnailt's door.

"'Oo was that?" Scabior demanded a second time.

"No one," Raoghnailt replied hoarsely, her fingers trying to pry his from her throat.

He said nothing more, instead intent on finishing what he had started and then heading to the Leaky Cauldron to meet with Roxanne or Ruby or Rosie or whatever her name was. He wasn't even aware of Raoghnailt's gasps underneath him.

Scabior was quick to rebutton his plaid trousers and straighten his appearance once finished. Raoghnailt turned to face him when she had done the same.

Scabior sneered, "You are _not_ t' see this _Jack_–"

"And who are _you_ to tell me who I can and cannot see, Scabior?" she interrupted, her eyes narrowing. "You're obviously gallivanting around–"

"I ain't 'gallivantin'–"

"You are the most infuriatingly impossible man I have ever had the misfortune of–"

"Of fucking?" he finished for her. "Feel the same 'bout you, love."

Scabior tapped her cheek and then turned.

"I wasn't aware this was something we were going to continue doing," she said softly.

He grunted, shrugging off her reply.

Just as he wrenched open her door, she hit him with the most ridiculous conclusion she could possibly have come to. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, Scabior."

He rolled his eyes.

* * *

Scabior sat at the bar, swirling the remains of his beer at the bottom of his glass. He looked up when there was a scraping of stool feet against the floor. Fenrir Greyback sat down beside him and signaled for a drink. His usual, gin, was slid in front of him.

"So, how was she?"

Scabior raised an eyebrow. "Rao–"

"No," Fenrir chuckled, "your other lady friend."

"Didn't even see 'er. Well, I mean, I did, but we didn't do anyfing of consequence," Scabior trailed off as he waved for another lager.

Fenrir studied him thoughtfully.

"Wot're you lookin' at," Scabior said gruffly before taking a long swig of drink.

"You do anything of consequence with Scrimgeour then?"

"Might say tha', I s'pose."

He watched Fenrir take a comically delicate sip of gin.

"D'you fink I'm jealous, mate?" Scabior finally asked.

"Of what?"

Scabior made a face.

"Of who?"

"Raoghnailt seein' o'ver blokes," he grumbled. "She seems t' fink so."

"Well, if your roughing up Jamie What's-His-Face didn't indicate that three days ago when we were at the Ministry, I'm not sure I could say what does."

"Seemed t' have fergotten 'bout that," Scabior smirked, taking another swig.

"I've got a question for you," Fenrir turned to him.

Scabior grunted in response.

"What exactly does she mean to you? Is she just a good shag, or–"

"Exactly." Scabior said shortly. "Nofing more, nofing less."

"You sure about that, mate?"

"Damn sure."

But something small inside Scabior told him he was lying.

Fortunately, he was a very convincing liar.

* * *

**Sorry for the delay, and my apologies if this was less substance and more lemons, but I'm just following the notes I had written so long ago! The story should pick up more soon. As always, the Harry Potter Universe belongs to Jo Rowling, and that which you do not recognize from her series belongs to me. Please review, and be on the lookout for another chapter soon!**


	19. Always Do Sober

_"Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut."_ Ernest Hemingway

"Please," the soft voice of Xenophilius Lovegood whispered.

The hard expression Raoghnailt had been wearing softened significantly as she took in the poor man sitting before her. He was shaking underneath his robes. His hair was unkempt. He kept sniffling and she could see the sting of tears on his reddening eyes. He was fighting them. He wouldn't cry, she knew. Mr Lovegood had resolved to stay strong–for Luna–just as Raoghnailt's own father had done those many years ago.

The bags under Lovegood's eyes had been the first thing she noticed when she greeted him in the lobby. He was tired. He couldn't sleep. Truth be told, she had had trouble sleeping lately as well.

He cleared his throat. "If there is anything I can do, Miss Scrimgeour, anything at all," he trailed off.

Raoghnailt sighed. "Mr Lovegood, I–"

A sudden, sharp knock at her door interrupted her. "Excuse me," Raoghnailt muttered as she stood, straightened her robes, and crossed to the door. She opened it five inches, just enough for her face to pop out, and was met with Scabior leaning against her door frame.

"I'm in a meeting," she whispered.

"Wiv 'oo?" Scarbior asked, his eyes roaming her face before he turned his attention to the dirt under his fingernails.

Raoghnailt hesitated before she mouthed, "Mr Lovegood."

Scabior's eyebrows shot up, "Well, well, well." He chuckled. "Cuttin' a deal er somefing?"

She shot him a look. "Are you just here to annoy me, or do you have some urgent business to address?" Raoghnailt hoped the tone in her voice indicated her agitation with him.

Scabior rolled his eyes and shrugged. "I'll see ya la'er, then."

Raoghnailt watched him slink away, back to the lifts, before retreating into her office and shutting the door.

They were quiet for some time. Mr Lovegood studied her as she shuffled through papers, mulling over her options. She could offer him some out–some way he could possibly get his daughter back, but it was no guarantee. There were three fugitives of particular interest to the Ministry, three fugitives who had been Luna's friends. Perhaps, she thought, they might visit the Lovegood home. It was unlikely–very unlikely–but it was an option that, as an Auror, she was trained to consider.

Or, she could be unattached and cruel and say there was nothing she could do to help him get his daughter back. Luna was, after all, at Malfoy Manor, and she was probably locked in some dungeon for all Raoghnailt knew. And the Malfoys did, indeed, seem the type of family that would have a dungeon.

Above all, Raoghnailt wasn't sure if this situation even fell under her jurisdiction. If it didn't, she would have to answer to Umbridge and Yaxley.

"Your–your father was a good man," Lovegood's weak voice interrupted her thoughts. Her eyes automatically darted to the photograph on her desk. Her father's arm around her shoulders as she beamed at the camera, showing off her certificate. His own smile was an expression of his pride. She remembered what he had whispered in her ear just after the picture was taken and just before he had given her a kiss on the cheek. "Always do what you feel is right."

Rufus Scrimgeour was a good man. He was a great man, even. And he departed this world, left his only daughter alone in the same office, doing what he thought was right. And, damn the consequences, she would offer Xenophilius Lovegood the first option, the _right_ option. It was the least she could do after prying his own daughter from him.

"A good vampire, you mean?" Raoghnailt teased lightly, her eyes finally meeting Mr Lovegood's. For the briefest moment, a small, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Mr Lovegood," Raoghnailt began, her voice dropping to a soft tone as she leaned forward, "there is, perhaps, one way we can get your Luna back. Now, I warn you, it will be dangerous, and you will be putting yourself in harm's way."

Lovegood nodded, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

"You have ceased printing certain articles in _The Quibbler_, yes?"

He nodded. "I won't publish anything more in support of..." he trailed off.

"Good, then the main issue the _Ministry _had," she emphasized, giving him a sharp look, hoping to indicate that by 'Ministry', she really meant 'Death Eaters', "is resolved. Our focus, and I mean the Snatchers and the people who currently have your daughter, is to capture a group of Hogwarts students with whom your daughter associated. I'm certain you know them: Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter."

Lovegood's face remained blank, so she continued.

"There is a slight chance–and, Mr Lovegood, I mean a _very_ slight chance–that you might encounter these three because of your daughter's friendship with them. If that is the case, and if you agree to this, you and I can arrange for a secret way for you to contact me so I can send the appropriate people to secure them _in exchange for_ your daughter.

But, this arrangement itself must remain a secret. My name will not be attached to this, nor yours. No one will know about this. I will receive a completely anonymous tip and will follow through as my job dictates. And, if we succeed, I will do everything within my power to return your daughter to you."

"And if we fail?" he asked finally.

Raoghnailt shook her head, "You shall have no part in the consequences should this fail. I will take full responsibility for sending the Snatchers–here at the Ministry and elsewhere."

"But you–"

Raoghnailt knew where this was going.

"Mr Lovegood," she said finally, leaning back in her seat, "I must tell you something. After my father died, I was brought in for a similar line of questioning as he. I was taken to a part of the Ministry I never knew existed. In the dark, I was beaten, tortured with the Cruciatus Curse for hours, and had Veritiserum forced down my throat when I could no longer stand. I can think of very few things worse than that. As you can see, I'm still here. There is nothing for you to worry about. I can handle myself."

Raoghnailt paused, studying his expression. He looked shocked, as well he should be. Most, if not all, Ministry employees kept quiet about what happened under the new administration. Indeed, she had never spoken of this to anyone. But, Mr Lovegood needed to know that she would be fine.

"They will not have done the same to your daughter, I promise. She's too young," she offered.

At least, Raoghnailt hoped they hadn't. There was no way for her to know.

"Very well," he sighed and nodded, pulling his robes closer to his body and shaking his hair out of his eyes. "So, what is the plan?"

* * *

"Tha' was a long meetin'," Scabior said, loping into her office hours later.

In truth, Mr Lovegood had departed shortly after they had fine-tuned their plan. She had given him a small bewitched wizard's chess piece–a black rook–that, if he pressed between two fingers, would send a signal to her own, a white rook. She would keep hers in her pocket, and it would burn hot immediately if he contacted her. They had practiced several times, and after instructing him to only do so if and only _when_ he encountered Potter, she escorted him from her office to the lobby.

"I thought we weren't speaking," Raoghnailt snapped.

"Wot, a man can't come in yer office wantin' ta get a drink wiv ya now?"

She shot him a wary look, "Why would I want to have a drink with you?"

"'Cause ya like drinkin'?"

"If this is some thinly veiled attempt to get me into your bed–"

"Yes."

"Are you still jealous?"

Scabior's eyes darkened, "Wot, d'you do somefing wif that mumblin', idiotic bloke in 'ere earlier?"

"Merlin, no!" Raoghnailt's jaw dropped as she slung her bag over her shoulder. "Why on earth would I do anything with Lovegood?" she mumbled.

He followed her out of her office and to the lifts. "Besides, I thought you weren't the 'jealous' type," she sneered as they stepped inside and the gate closed behind them. Raoghnailt grabbed a handle as they lurched downward. Scabior's hand wrapped around her own, and he drew himself close to her.

"Come back wiv me," he breathed against her ear. It sent shivers down her spine.

"Shouldn't you been in Manchester or something," she grumbled.

"Found 'im, brought 'im in, an' I'm stayin' at the Cauldron fer tha' nigh'. I was finkin' you could keep me comp'ny."

The lift stopped and the pair stepped into the lobby. She hadn't realized how close Scabior was until he said in a low whisper, "Or d'you only do tha' if yer a few glasses in?"

Raoghnailt huffed and stopped, folding her arms over her chest. He turned to face her, his own hands placed on his hips as he stared back at her.

"Well?" he persisted.

Raoghnailt stared back at him. Her resolve was breaking. "Are you going to at least buy me dinner?"

He seemed to consider this for a moment, his head cocked to the side. A lock of hair fell from his loose ponytail into his eyes.

"Fine," he said, turning around and swaggering off. Raoghnailt quickly followed him.

* * *

Raoghnailt stretched, her legs tangled in the bedsheet. Scabior huffed and shifted beside her, finally rolling over to face her with a glare.

"Wot in th' bloody 'ell are y'doin'?"

She sat up, running a hand through her hair. "I can't sleep, Scabior."

"Clearly."

She shot him a sharp look over her shoulder, only to see him smirking.

"Want ano'ver go, then?" he reached out for her, his hand wrapping around her arm and pulling her back towards him. Raoghnailt obliged, settling against his chest as she shook her head.

"Wot's 'a matter, then?"

"I'm exhausted. It's cold. And I'm in this bed with you."

Scabior snorted, "Could be worse."

"How?" she grumbled, raising her head to meet his eyes.

"Well, ya could be in _Fenrir_'s bed, eh?"

She let out a bark of laughter before resting her chin on her hand. She wasn't drunk–she only had one glass of wine with dinner–and she was lying in bed with Scabior, staring into his eyes. And he wasn't trying anything. He was just looking back at her. No wickedness in his eyes, or that look he got while he was on the hunt, or that bothersome look he got when he was jealous. He was calm and, she realized, so was she.

Her face flushed and she turned her attention to the rune tattoo meaning 'shelter' on his chest. "When did you get this one?" Raoghnailt asked, poking it suddenly.

He glanced at it, "Hm, I fink when I turned twen'y-free. Me father said somefing to me on my birfday an' I wanted 'a remember it."

"So you put it close to your heart?" she asked cheekily.

He lightly smacked her hip.

She wriggled in his grasp. "And the snake?"

"House pride after graduatin'," he shot back, just as cheekily. She wasn't sure why he was smirking the way he was. Maybe something she had said once when she was drunk. That was her best guess.

"And the one on your back? 'Sic semper tyrannis'?"

His face darkened, "You don't wan'a be knowin' that, love."

"Why not? Did you get it after a girl broke your heart or something stupid like that?" she laughed.

The glare he fixed her with quickly silenced Raoghnailt.

"No, it wasn't 'some girl 'oo broke my heart'," he sneered. "I got it while I was on the run from you an' yer father, just after killin' 'em."

Raoghnailt stared evenly back at him. Her mind was racing. That look was back in his eyes and the calm was gone. Slowly, she leaned forward and kissed him. And she kissed him again, and again, and again. She wasn't sure she could bring herself to apologize in words. His arms wrapped around her eventually, and they soon after fell asleep.

* * *

**For one, it has been far too long, dear readers (old and new!), and I apologize. Blame my university. Secondly, this chapter ended up longer than I originally intended and I hope to have the next chapter up soon. As always, J.K. Rowling owns the **_**Harry Potter**_** universe, and that which you don't recognize from it is my creation. Thank you for reading, and, if you feel so inclined, please leave a review! Or send me angry messages to post the next chapter–I bet that'll help me get to it sooner rather than later.**


	20. What a Burden It Was

_"Until you have lost your reputation, you never realize what a burden it was or what freedom really is."_ Margaret Mitchell

Scabior loped down the corridor towards the lifts, intent on stopping in Raoghnailt's office before leaving. It was nearing Valentine's Day, and he had a particular ache in his being that he know only she could soothe. And, he had an inkling it was also her birthday.

Not that he would ever admit any of that aloud.

"Oi, where're you-" Fenrir began, his stride matching Scabior's.

"I'll catch up wiv ya la'er, got some bus'ness ta discuss with Scrimgeour."

"'Business,' eh?"

"Yeah," Scabior snapped.

"Well, I'll be at the Leaky Cauldron, waiting."

Scabior nodded, stepping into a lift. The gate closed shut behind him as he leaned casually against the wall.

It was growing late. There were only a few Aurors still in their cubicles who peered up at him as he strode by. He heard shuffling behind him as they scurried away. Reaching her door, he took a deep breath and straightened his coat before knocking.

No response.

Scabior knocked again, this time harder.

Again, no response.

He looked down at the floor, a sliver of light reaching his boots from underneath the door.

"Scrimgeour," he barked, knocking harshly.

He strained to hear anything.

Silence and then... a soft moan.

"I'm coming in," he snapped, throwing open the door.

To his surprise, Raoghnailt was not seated behind her desk or shuffling through her filing cabinet or even asleep on her sofa. She was instead lying on the floor, and he wasn't entirely sure if she was breathing.

Scabior took a step forward and squatted, "Scrimgeour?"

"This ain't funny," he grumbled.

"C'mon," Scabior shook her shoulder.

When she didn't respond, panic began to set in. For the first time in a very long time, it felt like his pounding heart had jumped to his throat.

"Raoghnailt?" he breathed, pressing his fingers against her parted lips to see if she was breathing.

She was. Faintly.

_What if someone's poisoned her? Is she dying?_

He hesitantly shook her.

Nothing.

What was he supposed to do?

He stood and looked around frantically. Bottles. Bottles strewn everywhere.

_What in the bloody hell?_

It didn't take him long to piece everything together. Well, part of it. Who knew why she had done this. He would ask her later.

He bent down, hoisted her up, and set out of her office and down the corridor to the women's toilet. Raoghnailt moaned weakly. She stumbled beside him, and he felt as if he were just dragging her along. He shoved open the door and went straight for the sink, turning the knob for cold water and liberally splashing her face. It seemed as though minutes passed before her eyes flew open, her hands slipped around the bowl of the sink, and she gasped for breath. She sputtered, but he refused to stop.

Suddenly, she pushed him away and he stumbled back.

"Bloody 'ell, don't–"

Before he could finish, she stumbled into one of the toilet stalls and wretched. Raoghnailt's hand pressed firmly against the wall. She trembled with each heave.

Scabior patiently waited until she sunk to her knees. He didn't move from his position by the sinks. She would turn to face him when she was ready.

Finally, she did.

His eyes were glued to the form of Raoghnailt Scrimgeour as she crawled back toward the sink, her head hung in shame. She hoisted herself up by the sink's edge, took a long look at herself in the mirror, and then leaned over the sink and scooped a handful of water to her mouth. Scabior pretended not to notice the tears that streaked her cheeks.

_This is a new low, even for her_, he thought as he turned his attention to his fingernails. And yet, she remained stoic as ever. He looked back up at her when the water stopped. He didn't say a word-in all honesty, Scabior had no idea what he could possibly say. He just studied her face and occasionally glanced at the faucet which dripped slowly.

"Will you take me home?" she asked weakly.

If he hadn't been listening, waiting for her to fill the awkward silence, he wouldn't have heard her.

"'Course." He stepped forward to open the door for her. She slowly followed him, her hand not leaving the wall. As she stepped out, her hand curled around the crook of his elbow. Scabior glanced down at Raoghnailt, who stared evenly back at him.

"C'mon," he grumbled, shaking his head.

* * *

Scabior had never given a thought to what Raoghnailt's flat would look like, but when he arrived and candles were lit, he couldn't say he was at all surprised. A long sofa sat in front of a fireplace and a painting of some ancient diety hung above the mantle. Her table (accompanied by only one chair, he noted) was crowded with books, papers, and files. A half empty cup of coffee and a poked-at piece of cake sat near the sink, but the kitchen was otherwise spotless.

He led her to the sofa, which she sunk in to. She immediately leaned forward to tug her boots off.

"Can you help?" she asked hoarsely after struggling to pull a new, shiny Italian leather boot from her calf. Scabior quickly obliged, if only because he was discomforted by this new side of her. She was helpless, and scared, and sick. He didn't know how to handle it.

Setting one boot next to the other, Scabior took another glance around as he stretched and cracked his fingers. He turned and studied the painting. The woman blinked back at him before turning her eyes to focus on something just beyond Scabior. It was old. Years in the black market taught him it was eighteenth century. It had probably been in the Scrimgeour family home for centuries. He scowled.

"Artemis," she croaked from behind him, as if reading his mind.

"Lovely. Right, well, on tha' note, I fink I'll be on me way," he said, clapping his hands together and turning. He nearly jumped, though, when he barreled into Raoghnailt. She was standing a very short distance from him.

"Please don't go," she breathed, "not yet."

He cocked his head to the side. Raoghnailt stared at her feet.

Scabior sighed, "Alrigh'."

He brushed passed her and collapsed, throwing his feet over one arm of the sofa. He tried his hardest not to watch her shuffle to her bedroom. She left the door open and with a wave of her wand, a candle began to flicker inside. He could see her shadow against the door as she slowly peeled clothes from her body.

"Since you seem to have such a keen interest, how much is it worth?" she slurred.

Scabior's eyes turned back to the painting, considering it for a moment. "Eighteenf cent'ry, unsigned, but possibly a West. I'd wager ten thousand galleons...fourteen years ago." He snorted. He hadn't been in the business for almost a decade and a half. He had no idea what it'd fetch today. It could be a worthless piece of shit for all he knew.

He heard stumbling and then a groan come from her bedroom. The painting's eyes darted from his reclined form to Raoghnailt's door. Something in his gut fluttered nervously.

_Stop that_, Scabior scolded himself.

He quickly stood and crossed the short distance to the doorway. Raoghnailt leaned against the chest, her hand grasping her bare stomach. Her shirt hung open and untucked from her trousers.

"Not again," he grumbled. Scabior pulled her towards the watercloset. Once inside, she bent over the toilet, wretching. She had a firm grip of his wrist, and Scabior eventually slid down the wall and sat beside her.

_She isn't right_, he thought. Her eyes were closed and she breathed heavily.

"Would you bring me pajamas?" she whispered hoarsely. "And some water."

"Yeah, luv," he muttered without thinking as she withdrew her hand. By the time he had rummaged through her drawers, finding what he supposed was a nightshirt, and poured her a glass, Raoghnailt had pulled herself up and had just finished brushing her teeth. She shrugged out of her blouse, slid her trousers down her legs, and unhooked her bra. Scabior just stared, holding the glass of water in one hand and her nightshirt in the other.

"Stop gaping-it's uncouth," she snapped. "Nothing you haven't seen before," she mumbled, reaching for her pajamas and tugging the long-sleeved shirt over her head. She took the glass from him and took a sip.

"Good?" he asked. He wanted to leave. Desperately.

Instead, her hand wrapped around his bicep. "Bed."

"Yer in no shape t' be considerin' a quick romp, Raoghnailt," Scabior joked.

Next thing he knew, the entire contents of Raoghnailt's cup met his face. "No, you pissant, I want to go to my bed and I would rather not _crawl_ there," she bit out.

"Oh, righ'," he said lamely. Well, at least she still had some fire in her.

He slipped an arm around her waist and led her to the bed. She sat on the edge and set the now empty glass on the small table next to her. Scabior stood leaning against the doorframe.

"I'm sorry for throwing my water at you," she sighed.

He was silent for a long time. He was trying to understand the situation, or to at least figure out what she was thinking, but Scabior couldn't. "What th' fuck is wrong wiv you?" he finally asked. She pat the empty space on the bed next to her. Several times. He crossed the room and sat hesitantly beside Raoghnailt.

She took a shaky breath beside him, and just when he thought she was about to say something, she groaned and collapsed back into the mattress. When he turned to look at her, she was pinching the bridge of her nose.

"I was in a meeting with Thicknesse this morning, discussing the possibility of _snatching_ Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ronald Weasley, in exchange for Luna Lovegood."

"Why?" he asked flatly.

"Because she's an innocent young girl," Raoghnailt shot back. "She couldn't hurt a fly, and there's nothing they'll get from her."

Scabior rolled his eyes. He pitied Raoghnailt and her conscience.

"Well, tha' _certainly_ seems a good enuff reason ta drink yerself inta oblivion," he remarked flippantly.

"I wasn't finished," she hissed.

"Go on, then," he said impatiently. He would much rather be drinking with Fenrir than talking about _feelings_ with Raoghnailt Scrimgeour.

"I–I received a," she cleared her throat, "an urgent owl during the meeting. From St. Mungo's."

Scabior's brow furrowed and he turned more fully towards her. "St. Mungo's?" he repeated.

"It–it said I was needed immediately, so I excused myself and went there straight away." Her voiced tightened with every word. He instinctively leaned forward and searched Raoghnailt's face. She was staring up at the ceiling, fighting tears and avoiding his gaze.

"I went down to the," she paused and her face twisted, "the 'Loony Ward,' and the nurse led me to his room and, I know she was trying to explain and slow me down, but I ran down the corridor and refused to listen to her."

She took a shaky breath, "I wasn't prepared at all. To see him hanging there, from...from a pipe he had found in the ceiling. He had _literally_ torn part of the ceiling away...and he had hung himself with a–a bedsheet. He was completely lifeless, pale, . . . cold. He–I couldn't do anything, I didn't get to . . . to say good-bye or . . . apologise," she choked on a sob and covered her face with her hands.

Another annoying feeling, like a hand squeezing his heart, hit Scabior. "'Oo?" he asked as gently as he could. Some old lover, perhaps?

"I don't think I should tell you," she wimpered.

"Fine, well, I'll jus' be–," Scabior made to move from the bed. Good, she didn't want to tell him. He was free to leave.

She moaned something suddenly, and he stopped. Her muffled response was indiscernable, so he turned to face her again.

"Wot was tha'?"

"_Baines_," she said more clearly. "My–my brother."

Scabior had not expected that. "Your brother died years ago," he started. Raoghnailt peered up at him from between her fingers and shook her head.

"No, no. He died today," she whispered frantically. "I've never told anyone. We lied. We sent him to St. Mungo's. It was horrible. We were horrible to him. It was wrong. That's why my mother," Raoghnailt trailed off, her hand now tugging nervously at her collar.

Scabior shook his head. "The great Scrimgeours fooled us all," Scabior lightly joked, trying to make sense of this.

She blanched.

_You've done it now, ya git._

He stood suddenly and smoothed his plaid trousers.

"Where are you going?" she sat up quickly and gasped, her hand going to her forehead and her eyes squeezing shut in pain.

"Gettin' ya ano'ver wa'er," he said, grabbing the glass. Scabior blew out the candles in the kitchen as he left. He noticed that she hadn't received a single birthday card. Instead, one from last year, dated 6 February 1997, sat next to her plate of cake. It was signed by her father, "With love always." By the time he returned with water to the bedroom, Raoghnailt had settled against her pillows on the far side of the mattress. He handed her the cup and she gratefully took it.

"I'm sorry," he finally said. In all honesty, Scabior wasn't entirely sure what to say. He was still mulling over the shocking revelation that Raoghnailt's younger brother had been alive all these years, stuck–_imprisoned–_in St. Mungo's. She only nodded.

He wasn't entirely sure he could look at her the same ever again. She, without a doubt, was not the goody-goody, know-it-all he had always thought her to be, though. No, Raoghnailt Scrimgeour had some dark secrets of her own. Very dark secrets, indeed.

"Please stay," she whispered. "I don't," she took a deep gulp of water, "I really don't want to be alone tonight."

"Actually, I've gotta meet Greyback at–"

"Please," she looked up at him desperately.

Scabior weighed his options. A small voice told him he should stay. A louder one told him to go drink this all off. But then that small voice grew, louder and louder, telling him if he didn't stay, he would be worrying about her all night. He had to give in.

He groaned, "_Fine_."

Scabior shrugged out of his jacket and waistcoat, tugged off his scarf and boots, unbuttoned his shirt, and set his ring on the table near the candlestick. She held her blankets up so he could slip underneath them, and he did so. He quickly blew out the candle, trying not to gag at the thought of how _domestic_ this tableau was, and stretched his arms behind his head.

"No more wiv th' drinking ourselves int' a stupor though, eh?" he said. She didn't reply.

Scabior had just closed his eyes when he felt Raoghnailt curl up against him, her head resting against his chest and her arm wrapping around his waist. He wasn't going to move, but then he felt a small, wet drop against his chest, and then another, and another, and another. With a sigh, he shifted and wrapped an arm around her. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring and comforting squeeze. She only buried her face against his shoulder and he felt more warm tears against his skin. Raoghnailt shook beneath his arm.

"I'm sorry," he repeated when she finally calmed down and her breathing steadied.

Her chest rose and fell against his side. _Tha' feels . . . nice_, he thought as he once again closed his eyes.

"Scrimgeour?"

"Hmm?"

"'Appy birv'day."

She shifted under his arm and he felt soft lips against his jaw. He opened his eyes to see her hovering near his chin. He leaned forward and gave her a brief peck. She still tasted like firewhiskey. The tips of their noses brushed when she moved to return the kiss before settling back against his chest.

"Thank you," she breathed.

Scabior didn't respond, instead closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep. Maybe, just maybe, a small part of him could get used to this.

* * *

**Well, it's been a long time, hasn't it? I apologize for that, and also if this chapter was a little slow. Character development and all that! Anyway, you know the drill–J.K. Rowling owns that which you recognize from the Harry Potter universe, I own that which you don't. I'll try to have another chapter up tonight (or one for **_**Wee Birdies Sing**_**, we'll see)! Thanks for reading and for your patience! Yours.**


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